Outside the Lines
by nanniships
Summary: Joe Molesley is approaching a mid life crisis running the flower shop that has been in his family for generations. He is driven to distraction when a tattoo parlor opens in the shop next to his and meets the owner and head artist of the tattoo parlor- Phyllis Baxter, a woman with a past and life issues of her own. What happens when the ink is permanent?
1. Joe

Joe

He wasn't sure when he had developed the habit of speaking aloud to the plants.

His mother had spoken to the plants - claimed it helped them grow. She'd sung to them too. Dad still addressed the odd climber that wouldn't twine properly, snapping at them in that gruff voice that he remembered all too well from his own childhood.

But Joseph Molesley didn't just encourage the plants to grow or admonish them to climb. He monologued to them every morning as he drove the short miles from his cottage to the shop. He declaimed to them as he pottered around in the shop, hours earlier than he needed to be there, hours before his assistant would arrive. He waxed philosophic to them while preparing the same arrangements for the same house parties, funerals, weddings, hospital visits, dance recitals, graduations, and disgruntled spouses that he had been preparing for almost thirty years.

He didn't used to hate it. Or at least, he didn't used to hate it enough to complain to the plants. It was his life. It was all his life was. And he thought it better than most, not as good as many. The challenge of satisfying the particular customer kept his head high. And there were opportunities to try new things, to explore how to bring out what slept in every bloom and blossom.

There was beauty in it once; a beauty that made him happy to get out of bed and forget how lonely a bed it was, most of the time. There was a time when the art of what he did made his heart whole.

There was a time when he didn't spend ten minutes complaining to a poorly Madagascar Dragontree about the traffic by the grade school while curious upper school students stared at the potted plant strapped securely with seatbelt on the passenger side, then at him. He had to suppress the urge to crank down the window and yell at them to move on - hadn't they ever seen root rot before?

As a respected local businessman, he had to maintain an image of sanity, at the very least.

"Nosy little gits, don't you think?" he asked the Dragontree. The Dragontree drooped sympathetically, the light changed and Joe rolled sedately through the intersection. One more intersection and a right turn took him past his storefront, where he took a quick glance to see that the sign was still hanging straight off the chains.

_Molesley and Son - Finest Flowers since 1925_

"Granddad…Dad…now me. And here's where it ends," he muttered, as he did every time he looked at the sign.

He had to give it to Dad, though. He never tried to push him into settling down and producing another generation of florists. Oh, his mother had done a fair bit of that. She'd even tried to turn the screws on her deathbed. Every Sunday, when Dad was feeling under the weather, Joseph would faithfully take a new bouquet to his mother's grave, clean up the mess, arrange everything to its best advantage, and apologize for not being married.

"Sorry, Mom. I guess I just never met the right person." His mother's voice in his head, admonishing him that he had to _get out there and put his best foot forward 'cause the girls aren't beating your door down Joe_ was getting easier to ignore every year. And when it wasn't, he would just talk louder to the plants.

Pulling around to the alley behind the stores, he slipped his cargo van into the small space at the shop's backdoor. It was a privilege of being the owner. His shop assistant had to find street parking, and good luck to him. He turned off the motor and just sat, squeezing the steering wheel and listening to the engine tick.

He sat for ten minutes, staring at the backdoor, wondering what it might look like if he plowed the fucking van straight through it. He turned over the geography of the shop in his mind, wondering if one good hard stomp on the accelerator would be enough to get him through the workshop and freezers and into the front of the shop. The browsers would panic and run for the front door, making the entry bell shake and ring frantically until it fell off. The older woman picking up her order would plaster herself against the wall and her jaw would jiggle and flap with outrage.

Jimmy, the shop assistant, would probably try to help by stepping in front of the van. Criminally negligent manslaughter carried a possible sentence of 5-7 years. He'd checked.

"Wouldn't do you any good either," he informed the Dragontree.

With one last sigh, he exited the van and went around to the passenger side to get the plant. Transferring the pot easily from one arm to the other, he searched his pockets for his keys, finally finding them in his jacket. With a satisfied grunt, he stuck the key into the lock and turned it, pushing the door open.

There was a moist chill in the air from the Amana, and an underlying, comfortable smell of moss and mould near the back entrance, where the condensation pipes drained. There were always lights on in the work shop - grow lights over the seedlings, heat lamps over the subtropicals. It still managed to seem dark and secret though, at least until he flipped on the fluorescents and broke the spell of rain forest floor and river's edge.

The sudden stab of light in his eyes made him wince and wish he could throw something. He considered heaving the Dragontree at the ceiling lights, but he knew he would miss chatting with it.

"I've got too much invested in you to give up now," he said firmly.

He settled the plant on a work bench, dribbled some water into the pot and felt like an idiot. Walking to the entrance of the front showroom, he stood with his hands in his pockets, wishing for a cup of coffee and watching the slow, sporadic traffic pass by the front window.

"There are things I should be doing," he announced to the display arrangements, "but it looks like it's going to be one of those days I mostly spend talking to plants and regretting the bulk of my life decisions."

When the display arrangements declined to respond, he plodded into his office and sat down at the table that served as a desk. He'd been intending to get some modern office furniture since Dad had turned over full operation of the business to him. But he was intimidated at the thought of combing through a decade's worth of invoices, orders, forms, and trade periodicals stacked strategically on the table, just as Dad had left them. By this point, his reluctance to disturb Dad's system and reorganize verged on superstitious.

"If it ain't broke, Joe, don't fix it. Am I right?" he muttered to the large, healthy Ficus in the corner. The one nod to modernity that he had made was to clear off a space just large enough for a computer. Switching it on, he heaved a sigh and prepared to spend a good hour deleting e-mails without reading most of them.

Jimmy was late, of course. Joe had to receive and stow the deliveries, get things swept up and the doors unlocked on his own. Not that customers were beating down the doors, but you could always count on a few early morning folks who wanted to get the best, freshest flowers of the day.

When Jimmy strolled in, eating a pastry as if he had all the time in the world, Joe was making desultory small talk with Mr. McAllen, who had dropped in to get the perfect bouquet to present to his perpetually enraged wife. It was a vicious cycle, he mused. The Missus gets cranky and the Mister spends too much time anywhere but home, which makes the Missus more cranky, so the Mister tries to fix it with a ritual sacrifice of floral offerings on the altar of his failed relationship, which makes the Missus feel patronized and makes her cranky.

_It's the foundation of our business, Joe, me lad. Bad marriages_, Dad used to say.

"And they wonder why I never bothered," he muttered under his breath.

"Eh? Didya say something, Mr. Molesley? Should I go with something bigger maybe?"

"You're the only bloke who knows that," he replied, thinking that Mr. McAllen could plant a flowering shrubbery every week and not stay in his wife's good graces.

Jimmy listened with interest as he tied his apron around his waist and tried to look busy. Joe winced as crumbs from Jimmy's pastry fell onto the recently swept floor. There was a time when he'd have fired Jimmy, and enjoyed it quit a bit. Now, he just couldn't be arsed.

Mr. McAllen must have really screwed up this time. He left with a bouquet including hot house orchids that cost nearly 50 quid. Joe couldn't bring himself to be happy about the sale. No one ever sends flowers during divorce proceedings.

The bell over the door rang to signal Mr. McAllen's departure, and for a moment, the only thing that could be heard was Jimmy masticating gamely at his breakfast.

"And just where the hell were you this morning?"

Jimmy's eyes went wide. "At the dentist," he replied, blowing more pastry crumbs onto the floor. "I told you last week I had a bad molar and they were able to work me in early this morning."

"You told me last week?" he asked, trying to remember before remembering that he usually didn't pay any attention at all to what Jimmy told him.

Jimmy nodded vigorously, swallowed the last of his pastry, and wiped his hands across his apron, leaving a greasy, buttery trail that caught Joe's eye every time he had the misfortune to glance at his assistant through the day.

Joe shook his head and began rounding the shop, pinching the dry ends off the hanging ferns and testing the soil ph with his meter. "If he wasn't so damn pretty and good with the female customers, I'd have him out," he muttered confidentially to the fern he was ministering to.

"What needs doing today, Mr. Molesley?" Jimmy called from across the counter. It made him nervous when Mr. Molesley began talking to the plants.

"Same as usual," he replied. "A couple of orders to have done before 2pm - you can do most of them. You know how by now."

Jimmy brightened up so much at Joe's half hearted commendation that he felt a little guilty.

"You do them, and I'll be getting the place settings ready for that big wedding up at the Abbey this weekend. They only want thirty-four bloody fig and eucalyptus based arrangements in those ghastly urns. And apparently, the bridesmaids dresses are what ties it all together. I ask you…"

To his horror, Joe suddenly felt as if he might start weeping, right there in front of God, Jimmy and the world in the front of his shop. Just break down and cry at the overwhelming bloody _frustration_ and _sadness_ of pissing and moaning about complementary arrangements for bridesmaids dresses two weeks from his 50th birthday while his Masters degree in Botany hung crookedly on the wall of his office and another rejection letter from _Seed Science Research_ sat at the bottom of the bin. Feigning an overwhelming interested in the rootball of a Fiddle Leaf Tree, he tried to get his quivering lower lip under control.

"They took down some of the paper in the window of the shop next door," Jimmy said cheerfully as he cut ribbon. "What's going in, Mr. Molesley?"

"How the hell should I know?" Joe snapped, alarmed at the quiver in his voice and hoping Jimmy would chalk it up to irrational anger. It must have worked; Jimmy looked at him warily, then rolled his eyes and went back to his ribbons.

"Dunno," he muttered. "Guess I thought someone would have told you."

Joe grunted and blew out an exasperated breath. There really was no getting around the necessity of conversing with Jimmy. Swallowing the painful lump in his throat, Joe joined him behind the counter and lined up the orders, trying to ascertain which ones could be safely left in Jimmy's marginally competent but slowly improving hands.

"I saw a tall bloke out in front," Jimmy said suddenly. "He had some wicked tats. A whole sleeve on his right arm. Do you think he's the new owner?"

Joe looked at Jimmy blankly for a moment before realizing he was talking about the shop next door.

"And he was having a smoke," Jimmy went on. "I wonder if they're gonna sell food or something there. Isn't that what the new regs say? You can't smoke where you serve food?"

"I don't allow smoking in here, Jimmy, and it's got nothing to do with food. Some just don't want the nasty things in their place of business. Now if you'll look at this order—"

"Yeah, but if that bloke's the owner—"

"Will you shut up already about the shop next door, Jimmy, and maybe consider how much longer you're going to be employed in this one?" he snapped. He glared at a confused Jimmy, desperately wanting to hit something but unable to choose between the counter or his assistant. The bell rang cheerfully, forcing him to try to school his features into a pleasant, welcoming expression.

He knew he was unsuccessful by Mrs. Bryant's raised eyebrow. It nearly pierced her carefully coiffed apricot wash.

"Something wrong today, Mr. Molesley?"

"Nothing that won't be sorted once them next door finish up with all their renovations and open up," he replied, trying to sound, if not cheerful, at least not petulant.

He was unprepared for her eager nod. She beckoned him a little closer, as if that might prevent Jimmy from overhearing.

"I was never so shocked when that was approved, I can tell you. And this close to High Street."

"Er… I don't…"

"Oh I'm sure you did all you could to stop it, but that's what they say, eh? You can't fight the council; you can only vote them out."

The fact that Joe was staring blankly at her and Jimmy was listening so hard he was nearly folded over the counter did nothing to deter Mrs. Bryant once she got the bit between her teeth.

"I can't _think_ who's going to utilize those…_services_. This has always been a respectable street with respectable businesses."

Joe's eyes flew frantically to the wall between his shop and the one next door, as if he could see through it by dint of sheer will and ascertain what had old Lady Bryant's knickers in a twist. True, she was fairly easily shocked, and had even tried to protest the local theater showing adult themed pictures. Her being this upset could mean anything from a massage parlor to a Hooter's franchise.

"I'm sure it won't hurt your lovely shop though, Mr. Molesley. You're a _true_ man of integrity and everyone will simply ignore it…"

Joe looked at his assistant and saw his own utter confusion reflected back on Jimmy's face. What in God's name was going in next door? And why didn't he know?

"…so long as the clients don't pass out on the sidewalk or try to sell drugs, I can't see it impacting you badly at all." She gazed at him sympathetically.

"Ah…Mrs. Bryant? Was there anything we could do for you this morning?" Jimmy asked, when he could see that Joe's mouth simply wasn't working.

"Why yes, Jimmy. If you'd be so kind, I need two roses and a pot of violets. Mrs. Ruff is down in hospital again with pneumonia."

"One errand of mercy…coming right up," he replied with the dazzling smile that kept biddies like Mrs. Bryant finding sick friends all over the village.

"If you'll excuse me, Mrs. Ruff," Joe mumbled, suddenly forgetting who he was talking to and walking quickly for the entrance.

"Oh no, I'm… well, of course, Mr. Molesley," she huffed at his back before turning her attention back to Jimmy.

Joe threw open the door, making the bell ring loudly, and strode out onto the walk and over to the curb before turing to look directly at his neighbor's storefront. He felt his knees buckle as his eyes darted between the flashing neon signs.

_Tattoos_… _Piercings_… _Modifications_…

And over the door:

_OUTSIDE THE LINES _

Staring back at him from inside the window was a tall, dark haired man who watched him with amusement. A shorter, thin woman made her way towards the window, but by the time she got there, Joe had turned on his heel and was practically jogging towards the village centre.

The couple in the store watched him wobble and stumble down the block before looking at each other and shrugging.

An ill wind had blown through the office of the Village Council, and it's name was Joseph Molesley. Council Chair Tom Branson could hear Joe's voice raised in the outer office while the village clerk tried to calm him down. Curious as to why Joe sounded just a notch south of outright panic, Tom stuck his head out of his cubicle.

"What are you on about, Joe?" he asked jovially.

"What am I on about!? What am I bloody on about!? There's only a _tattoo parlor_ opening next to my flower shop is all!" The agitated motions of his arms knocked a small candy dish off of the clerk's desk, sending boiled sweets skittering into her lap. She looked frantically at Tom.

Tom rubbed his forehead. He could already feel the headache.

"Why don't you come on in and we'll see what's what," he invited, if only to give Marilyn a break.

Joe stalked stiff legged through the office and into Tom's cubicle. He refused the offered folding chair and instead stood in the middle of the tiny space.

"You seem surprised by it all, Joe," Tom began.

"Why wouldn't I be surprised? Isn't this the sort of thing Council is supposed to _tell _ businesses about?" Before Tom could open his mouth all the way to respond, Joe continued, "No. I take that back. Isn't this the sort of thing Council is supposed to _prevent?!_"

"Lord above, are you channeling Mrs. Bryant right here in my cubicle?" Tom said with a laugh. "Get away with that."

"Tom, Mrs. Bryant - irritating blue-nosed wowser that she is - is my _customer base_. If she's upset, they're all upset. A grubby tattoo parlor with filthy, drunk, felonious clients is going to adversely effect _my_ business. And what the hell does Downton need with a _bloody tattoo shop_?!" Joe's voice had been rising and his chest was heaving. The wheeze that had vexed him since boyhood when he was agitated was hissing from his throat.

"Whoa, there, Joe," Tom said as soothingly as he could, "Take the kettle off the hob and slow down. When was the last time you were even _in _a tattoo parlor?"

"What?! What sort of question is that?"

"I'll take that as a 'never,' then. They've changed quite a bit, you know."

"It's a _tattoo parlor_. Are you trying to tell me they've become this generation's Young Men's Christian Organization?"

Tom look at him appraisingly. "You've not been to a YMCA lately either, have you?"

Joe shook his head and stared at the corner of the cubicle where a sad, drooping Rubber Tree eked out a miserable existence in the absence of natural light. Joe wanted to tuck it up under his arm and dash out the door with it.

"Alright," Tom said after a deep breath. "Tattoo parlors are a perfectly legitimate business and the proprietor of _Outside the Lines_ had to go through the same approval process as any other business start-up. She submitted all the paperwork to make sure the zoning was clear, all of her health committee reports from her last place of business, and affidavits from her previous landlord attesting to her probity and —"

"Wait," Joe said, his eyes snapping back to Tom. "_Her_?"

"Yeah…" Tom rummaged through the mess on his desk. "Ms. Phyllis Baxter…"

"So…so the tall bloke isn't the owner?"

"Well, I can't say I've personally met Ms. Baxter yet, so she _could _be a tall bloke, I suppose…"

Joe was hardly listening to his old friend's teasing as he tried to remember what the woman in the shop had looked like. He shook his head in frustration.

"At any go," Tom went on, "She jumped through all the hoops and then some. I don't know why she wants to open a tattoo parlor in Downton, but Council couldn't find a reason to deny her a permit to operate."

"But why wasn't I at least _told?_" Joe wailed.

"Let me give you a little hint on how e-mails work, Joe. You have to actually _read _them." He gave Joe a stern look when he started to sputter. "You're on the same e-mail list as every other business in the village. Everyone else has known about it for weeks, and has had time to lodge all sorts of complaints. I'll admit, I was surprised when I heard nothing from you, since you'll be most directly effected, but…"

Joe's legs finally gave out from under him and he sat heavily in the folding chair.

"This could ruin me, Tom," he whispered.

Tom scoffed. "It'll be a six day wonder, then nothing untoward will happen, and everyone will go back to minding everyone else's business, just like usual." He looked curiously at Joe's glassy eyes. "Why don't you go meet her?

"Your Rubber Tree is dying, did you know that, Tom?" he asked sadly.

"No, I didn't," Tom replied through clenched teeth, "because I care fuck all about Rubber Trees, Joe. It's been there forever and I think it'll still be there when they carry me out feet first. Which might be today if you don't pull yourself together and _get a grip!_"

Tom glared at the pile of papers on his desk and asked himself again for the three thousandth time whatever had possessed him to run for Council. Joe looked as if someone had sucked out all his plasma and replaced it with treacle.

"Do you need a drink, Joe?"

"No, but that Rubber Tree could use—"

"Bugger the Rubber Tree. Why don't you rescue the Rubber Tree, if it'll set your mind at ease Joe?" Tom raised his eyes towards the ceiling as if begging strength. "I'll look down at my work here and won't see a thing. You just scarper off with that poor, abused houseplant and give it a new lease on life, alright?"

Joe stood slowly and looked at the top of Tom's head. He simply didn't know how to explain to his old friend that he was desperate for his life to have meaning and excitement again while at the same time being terrified of anything that might change. Rubber Trees were easier.

He bent over and hefted the Rubber Tree up, then walked out of Tom's cubicle and nodded at Marilyn on the way out of the village hall. Marilyn, wisely, said nothing about him absconding with the Rubber Tree.

"Marilyn…" came a weak voice from Tom's cubicle. "Could you be a good lass and fetch me three pharmecetol, a large brandy and a strong rope or large bore pistol please?"

No one batted an eye as Joe strode through town with a Rubber Tree in his arms, holding a one sided conversation in a low voice with it. He kept looking around furtively, checking to see if anyone was overhearing him describe the multitude of ways his new shop neighbor could destroy his business. But no one seemed to notice or care. Joe's relief quickly passed into resentment.

"I could probably whip off my jacket and shirt and begin to aggressively hump you right here in the church square, and no one would give a monkey's ass," he informed the Rubber Tree. It didn't seem alarmed at the possibility that he might carry through with this suggestion.

Just as Joe had no intention of actually engaging in shocking behavior with a houseplant next to the church yard, he also had no intention of trying to walk past the new tattoo parlor to wrestle the Rubber Tree through the front door. He scuttled around to the alley and made his way to the back entrance. As he passed the back of the neighboring shop, he noticed a scooter with a black helmet hanging from the yoke.

The woman who owned a tattoo parlor apparently didn't drive a car. Unless it was the tall bloke's scooter. He pulled his eyes away from the scooter and the pile of broken sheetrock stacked by the back door and looked at his nondescript, white cargo van with the shop logo stenciled on it. Somehow, he wouldn't have minded if it suddenly burst into flames.

"Bloody hell," he informed the Rubber Tree when it did no such thing. Wrestling the plant through the back door, he placed it on the workbench next to the Dragontree and introduced them. He could hear voices from the front — Jimmy's mainly, and then a low, velvety, unfamiliar voice. He took a deep breath and walked through to the front.

Jimmy was talking excitedly to the tall, dark haired man from the shop next door, who seemed to be amused by him. They both turned and looked at Joe when he clattered through.

"Where'd you _go_?" Jimmy asked breathlessly. "You missed three customers. Mrs. Ruff is going to have more African violets than she knows what to do with."

Joe felt his eye start to twitch. "I had to make an emergency call. Rubber Tree, you know." Both men looked at him blankly. "Can I help?"

"Jimmy's been taking care of me," the man drawled, almost suggestively.

"This is Thomas. He's one of the tattoo artists from next door," Jimmy offered, his eyes sweeping admiringly over the flames flowing over the knuckles of Thomas' left hand.

"I'm the only tattoo artist," he corrected dryly, "not counting the boss. She's the real artist." He grinned at Joe, who was resolutely trying not to stare at Thomas' tattoos. "There's just the two of us that you saw through the window."

Joe could feel his ears flush at the thought that this man and his "boss" had watched his frantic escape down the street.

"Ah. Well then, erm, Thomas. What can we help you with?"

"He's wanting some kind of flowers that'll kill the smell of the paint and plaster in the boss's office," Jimmy informed him.

Thomas smiled indulgently at Jimmy. "Yeah. Jimmy's been offering suggestions." He looked challengingly at Joe. "What do you think, Mr. Molesley?"

"Gardenias."

"That's just what _I_ said," Jimmy piped up proudly. "Nuthin stinks like a bloody gardenia."

Joe trembled as he physically fought the urge to throttle Jimmy. Murder due to enflamed passions carried a possible sentence of 15 years to life. He'd checked.

Thomas' laugh rang through the shop. "Fine," he chuckled. "I'll take a bouquet or whatever of the stinky ones. She'll get a kick out of that."

Joe looked at Jimmy pointedly until Jimmy quit grinning at Thomas and made a noise that indicated enlightenment.

"Ohhhh. I'll get that ready then, right Mr. Molesley?"

"If you would be so kind," Joe gritted out through clenched teeth. With a nod in Thomas' direction, he returned to the work shop and slumped on a stool, staring at the carton holding the thirty-four hideous urns for the table centerpieces. The hum of the cold units, something he could usually block out with no trouble, filled his ears and made him feel like stuffing a trowel in each one. Having plenty of trowels at hand, he gave it a shot.

They turned out to be rubbish at blocking out the world. Frustrated, he hopped off the stool and gave the carton of urns an almighty kick. Conversation in the front of the store stopped at the din, then resumed momentarily. The bell over the door rang, hopefully signaling Thomas' departure. He braced himself for Jimmy to appear cautiously in the door of the workshop.

Twenty minutes later, after retrieving and stacking the urns neatly, Jimmy still hadn't appeared to see what had happened or to offer to help. Joe narrowed his eyes at the door and then deliberately knocked the urns over again. Leaving them scattered and rolling around the floor, he wandered wearily into his office and sat at the table with his head in his hands.

"You don't give a shit either, do you?" he accused the Ficus in the corner. Grim silence was his only answer.

"Jimmy!" he bellowed as loudly as he could. Jimmy shuffled into the doorway of the office warily. "Are you done with those orders?"

"The ones from this morning? Yeah."

"Go and stack up those urns in the workroom then. I'll listen for the bell." Pretending to be engrossed in a stack of invoices, he waved at Jimmy to send him on his way.

"I'll find a way to motivate myself to do those bloody centerpieces. Then, I'll watch the shop while Jimmy goes to lunch and hopefully gets trampled to death by a herd of goats." The Ficus, to whom this was addressed, shuddered in the slight breeze coming through the open door.

"I'll make some deliveries this afternoon and meet with a new wedding planner, the thought of which makes me want to impale myself on a Norfolk Pine. After that, I'll close up the shop, visit Dad, get beat at cribbage, grab a take away and go home to ponder the uselessness of my life." The Ficus stood tall and judgmental.

"I only wish I had your problems," he finished miserably.

"Are you talking to me, Mr. Molesley?" Jimmy bellowed from the workshop.

"No," he whispered. "I'm not talking to anyone at all."

The bell rang, and Joe got up with a sigh.

**A/N- This is all uncharted ground for me and this ship. Let me know what you think of this start.**


	2. Phyllis

Phyllis

Just for a moment - a brief one, mind - Phyllis Baxter wished she had someone to talk to.

Well, someone other than Thomas. She'd known him so long they could finish each other's sentences like an old married couple. Except that she didn't love Thomas in the slightest and being able to anticipate his thoughts made her feel a tad skeevy.

The certificate hanging in her office stated that she was a fully trained and licensed tattoo artist, not a counselor. But every person who came to her for a tattoo had a story and she was the one who had to hear it - sometimes with aching heart, more often with hidden eye rolls.

Usually, her tattoos spoke loudly enough that she didn't feel the need to speak herself. But when she did, she would like to have someone who listened. Not many in her life just listened. Perhaps she needed a dog.

She'd never had a pet, though, and was uncertain as to what that relationship would look like. A animal that was completely dependent on her would feel like an obligation, and she felt she would grow to resent an obligation. One that didn't depend completely on her would make her wonder if it could be trusted not to plot against her.

She smiled, thinking of a shadowy cabal of domestic animals slinking away under cover of darkness to plan revenge for imagined slights. As always, the image that came to her mind was so clear, her fingers twitched with the desire to sketch it out.

No matter how strange a concept was, there was someone out there who would want a tattoo of it.

She wasn't at the proper place in her life for a pet. But it would still be nice to have someone or something to listen to her. Preferably human, but she'd learned long ago not to be too picky.

She was about to go back inside and watch the renovation crew put the finishing touches on the walls when a white cargo van pulled up outside the back of the neighboring flower shop. Torn between the zen-like pleasure she took in watching the rhythmic dance of spackling and curiosity about her neighbor, she paused just inside the backdoor.

After five minutes, Phyllis gave up and went inside with a puzzled look at the shadowed figure who just sat there, gripping the steering wheel.

Shaking her head, she made herself a cup of tea, bitter with no milk or sugar, and wandered up to the front of the shop to watch the small crew finish up a wall. The equipment for her tattoo station was still under plastic in the back storage area, but Thomas had already begun setting his up in the corner of the room he had claimed for himself.

They'd had a bit of a set to about it. Thomas claimed he simply couldn't work without some hard core darkness and danger. It suited his style - raw and shocking New School with heavy outlines, vivid colors and exaggerated figures always pushing the boundaries of realism and taste. If you wanted a terrifyingly enraged octopus on your bicep, or a sexually submissive Maggie Thatcher on your chest, Thomas was your man. It didn't exactly suit the vision Phyllis had for the shop, but she knew that there was a demand for what Thomas did so well.

So she winced and watched as Thomas slammed his head to the music screaming in his earbuds and hung posters and examples of some of his best pieces against the paneling she had permitted for this corner of the shop. Her eyes wandered over the dartboard he had hung up over the piercing area, and the jagged bolts of bloody, red lightning he had splashed on the walls. Thomas' sense of humor had a few rough edges.

Admiring the viper running down the side of his neck - her work from six years ago and each scale still sharply defined and shaded - she reached out and patted his arm. Twisting in surprise, he let out a yelp and tripped backwards over a copy of a New Guinean tribal mask waiting its turn to be mounted on the wall.

"Trying to kill me, are you?!" he shouted, tearing the ear buds out of his ears and scowling at the sniggering workmen. One of them imitated his near fall and shriek for the entertainment of them all. "Fuck off, you desperate bishop beating piss artists! "

"They're your client base, Thomas," she pointed out calmly, sipping her tea. "And didn't you tell me the other day you thought the ginger was hot?"

"That was before I tried talking to him. He's as interesting as the sheetrock he spends all day dry humping. Besides…he married."

"Thomas, I know more about your preferences and history than could possibly be considered emotionally healthy and could cheerfully spend the rest of my days not hearing another detail…"

Thomas smirked in satisfaction and reached out as if he was going to snatch her tea from her. She moved it back smoothly and fixed her dark brown eyes on him.

"You need to remember that we cannot afford to drive off a single potential customer," she continued in a low voice, emphasizing the last three words. When Thomas rolled his eyes and pouted, she stepped closer to him until she was inches away and he began to fidget nervously.

"I'm going to make a go of this, Thomas," she said a level voice, betraying no emotion. "You're an old friend, you've got skills and you're welcome to come along for the ride, but make no mistake…it's my shop. And if you fuck it up, I don't care how long we've known each other, you're out on your ass with all your dark and brooding bullshit."

"Haven't we already had this pep talk, Phyllis?"

"You never listen." She stepped back and looked at him with raised eyebrow.

"I hear you loud and clear, boss," he replied, trying to smile disarmingly. Phyllis continue to look at him. "I really do. I don't know why you're convinced this shit hole village is the best place to make it happen, but I bet on you when I quit at Sam's."

"Just so we understand each other," she said with a little smile. "And make your own bloody tea."

"I want it to work as much as you do, Phyllis," he assured her as she moved away.

Phyllis stopped and turned around to look him in the eye. "Thomas, there isn't a single person on this whole damn planet that wants this to work as much as I do." Her smile did not reach her eyes.

* * *

The light over her drafting table wouldn't do. She needed something more direct, and perhaps brighter. Sweeping her graphite over the smooth expanse of white, she watched as a bird - a mistle thrush - appeared against a background of snow and branches, black bead eyes staring disconcertingly. She shaded the breast darker and reached for her colors without looking, knowing exactly where every one of them was in the case. Curling her fingers around the bright red, she applied it to the drawing until drops of blood trickled from the speckled breast to splash vividly on the snow.

"That's you sorted," she told the bird, who continued to stare accusingly at her. The young woman who had been referred to her from a battered women's shelter had been very clear in her vision and, pending approval of this design, would be in within the month to have it gray wash tattooed onto her shoulder blade with delicately fine lines on a palette of blacks and grays brought to stunning impact with the brilliant red.

"Is that for Megg?" Thomas' voice came from the doorway, startling her. Her fingers clenched and the red snapped in half with an audible crack.

"Sorry, boss," he said immediately.

"What do you want, Thomas?" she asked flatly, not turning to look at him.

"I was gonna step out for a smoke. Anything you need?"

"New lamp for the drafting table…something that clamps on so I can adjust the angle."

Thomas shook a cigarette out of the pack and stuck it in his mouth, staring at the drawing with an unreadable expression. When he didn't leave, Phyllis twisted her head slightly to look at him out of the corner of her eye. The corner of his mouth twitched up in a half smile devoid of any humor.

"Sometimes, you're so bloody good, I hate you a little," he murmured. She spun the stool around to look at him full on. "I don't think there's anyone else in the whole North of England that can do what you do."

"I hope there isn't," she replied softly.

Thomas snapped out of his reverie and made an impatient noise. "New lamp, then. That all?"

She nodded and he swaggered back out into the studio. He engaged in mocking banter with the workers and then the door shut behind him. Phyllis breathed a sigh of relief.

Thomas was a friend, in his own way, but he made her tired. He set her teeth on edge. She looked at the broken red graphite and bit her lip. Laying it carefully in the case, she turned to stare again into the bird's accusing eyes. And felt guilty that she wasn't where Megg was anymore - battered to the point of needing a reminder of her own strength etched into her skin.

"There's only so much I can do," she informed the bird defensively. The bird offered no forgiveness.

She stood and stretched, feeling the tension coiled in her back from sketching release in little snaps, and walked out into the front of the shop. The workers were obviously on break, leaning against the counter and perusing various flash sketches of football team crests.

"How much would one of these cost?" asked the tall, ginger one who had shattered Thomas' lascivious fantasies.

Phyllis glanced at the crest in his hand and snorted with suppressed laughter. Hull City? Really?

"I'd have to check. I don't think anyone requested one of those since 2008."

"That's you told, Alf!"

Phyllis left them to their bickering and moved closer to the window. Thomas hadn't gotten very far on his quest for a lamp. He was standing right in front of the shop, smoking and chatting up a smaller, blond man. If the light shining in the lad's eyes was any indication, Thomas had struck gold.

"Oh God, please let him be over the age of consent," she muttered to herself.

"Can we take these down?"

She looked in surprise at the oldest worker, who was gesturing at the paper covered window.

At her silence, the older man took off his cap and gripped it nervously. "I mean…the natural light would be better for the job." When she glanced at the papered window with knitted brow, he hastened to reassure her. "We'd put some back up, if you'd rather, after we was done…"

"Go ahead," she decided. "And you can leave it off."

Her stomach clenched in excitement as the workmen began tearing down the paper that had kept out all but the most determined prying eyes while they readied the shop for its new incarnation. Her eye fell on the neon signs leaning against the wall by the front door and she came to another decision.

"Thomas," she said, opening the door. The young man he'd been talking to had disappeared, and he was drawing on the last of his cigarette with a distracted look on his face.

"Thomas, I need you in here a moment," she said a little louder.

He started and rolled his eyes. "I haven't gone to get your lamp yet. Just got done with my—"

"Get the light later, or I'll go get it myself. We're taking the paper down and I want to test the signs."

Thomas' eyes lit up. "It's about bloody time. I've been telling you…you've got to give 'em a week of pressing their dear little noses against the glass, watching what's going on. Then they'll be trampling each other to be first through the door when we open."

Taking marketing advice from Thomas usually struck Phyllis as about as sensible as taking deportment lessons from a shark. But he had a point this time. She held the door for him as he hurried back inside the shop.

"Now that we're down to the painting and setting up, I don't see any reason to put it off. Hand me the plug, will you?"

"No…no," he protested, "let's do this thing _right_! I'll get the stepladder and we'll get 'em up on the hooks."

She watched with amusement as Thomas bustled around, snapping orders to the workmen, who were back at the job and ignoring him. He finally found a step stool and dragged it over to the window.

"Your eagle needs a touch-up," she informed him, watching the tattoo on his lower back reveal itself as he lifted his arms over his head to hang the signs.

"Quit staring at my arse," he snapped, concentrating on making minute adjustments to the sign.

"Bollocks," she replied. "Even if I was your type, you're not mine. That tat though…who did such a piss poor job on it?"

"Don't remember," he muttered. Finally satisfied, he jumped off the stool and ran the plug to the outlet in the window.

"Wait…"

He stopped and looked at her impatiently. She stared at the door sign she had designed and looked at him with a triumphant smile.

"Let's get this one up too."

Thomas grinned back at her and nodded. Together they hauled the heavy, awkward sign through the door and Thomas went back in for the step stool.

"Right," he said, preparing to climb it. "I'll get balanced and you lift it up to me."

Phyllis gave him a doubtful look. Suddenly, this did not seem like a good idea.

Accidental death puts a damper on a grand opening.

"I'm going to ask one of the wall lads to give us a hand. Get down before you tip off."

Standing back near the curb, Phyllis watched Thomas and the tall, ginger workman maneuver the sign until it hung straight. A older woman with a pinched expression and brilliant apricot hair passed between her and the shop and glared coldly. Phyllis watched her enter the flower shop next door and imagined tattooing a hideous purple unicorn with a rampant erection onto her forearm.

"Ta, mate!" Thomas thanked the young worker as they both climbed down and joined Phyllis at the curb. "Looks like me and the ginormous wanker got it straight."

"You've never gotten anything straight in your life," she replied absently, her eyes captured by the flowing blue accents to the orange lettering.

Thomas snorted with laughter. "Too bloody right."

After a few more moments of quiet appreciation, they went back inside. Thomas plugged in the signs like an afterthought.

"I can't believe this is happening sometimes," he murmured.

Phyllis didn't know if he meant for her to hear. She smiled at his back and went to lean against the counter and watch the crew put the finishing touches on the sheetrock.

"We'll be in to paint tomorrow, Missus Baxter," the older man assured her.

"That's _Miss_," she snapped. His eyes widened and he nodded nervously.

"Right. Sorry." He looked around at his crew, who were packing and cleaning. "We'll just…ah…"

"I'll see you tomorrow," she said, a bit more gently.

"Come check this out, Phyllis," Thomas said with a guffaw. "I think its the bloke from the flower shop."

Phyllis began to walk to the window, but only caught a quick glimpse of a medium sized man with thinning, mousy brown hair and a horrified expression before he lurched away down the street.

"Hah! He looked like someone had draped a flaming frog across his groin."

Phyllis slowly looked at Thomas with a perplexed expression. "Thomas, if you value your job and your life, you will never, ever explain to me how you know what such a thing would look like."

Thomas laid a finger across his lips and nodded solemnly.

Phyllis decided she need more tea. Perhaps quite a bit more.

* * *

You'd think that, with the workers gone for the day and Thomas off on an errand to find something to freshen the place up, it would be fairly quiet. You might think so.

But apparently, flower shops were more intense than she ever suspected. Even through the wall, she could hear thumps, bangs, and what sounded like a nursery full of three year olds taking a stab at the Anvil Chorus…twice. She amused herself by speculating what might be happening next door and settled on a small herd of goats cutting loose in the back rooms.

She could smell that Thomas had returned from his errand before she actually saw him.

"Shit, Thomas!" She wrinkled her nose as he sat a pot of white flowers, somewhat inexpertly arranged, on her desk. "I wanted something to cover up the plaster and adhesive smell, but this is uncalled for."

Thomas looked hurt. "I thought you might appreciate flowers more than aerosol spray."

"I'm sure," she replied, rolling her eyes and recoiling a little further from the aggressive arrangement of gardenias. "And it never figured into your thoughtful plan that the chap at the DYI store is pushing sixty and has ear hairs you could plait?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're impl—"

"What's his name?"

"Jimmy."

"And is Jimmy…old enough?"

"You know," Thomas mused, "I never asked." At her exasperated look, he grinned. "Of course, I never asked if he's interested neither. _He_ chatted _me_ up."

"Hmmm…and the other bloke? The owner? Did you happen to get his name?"

"Best I can tell, the man was christened 'Mr. Molesley.' And he's a funny one, I can tell you."

"Is he 'Mr. Molesley,' or 'Son?'"

Thomas shrugged. "Dunno, do I? Why? You hoping to hook up with him?"

"Don't be stupid."

"'Cause you could do better. That fellow's one leaf short of a stem, if you ask me."

Phyllis laughed at Thomas' turn of phrase and waved her hand at the pot of gardenias.

"Please, just get them out of here. Put them in the front of the shop. It smells like a bloody wedding chapel in my office."

"Maybe we could one of us get a license and do tattoo themed weddings…"

"Go home, Thomas. You're daft. Go get drunk or laid or something and I'll see you tomorrow."

"If you say so," he said. "I ain't gonna argue, am I?"

She bit off the obvious retort and simply wished him a good night. Once the door had closed behind him, she went to the front to lock it. The sky was darkening to a bruised purple as evening fell, and the neon signs had an aura of orange light that surrounded the words even when they blinked off. Even after she unplugged them, they flashed on the back of her optic nerve and floated across her vision.

She closed her eyes and stood in the middle of the shop with her arms outstretched for balance and took three deep breaths. She learned to do this at a time when it felt like the four walls of a featureless room were closing in on her at night. And she found it useful when the fine thrum of anxiety began to edge into the fullness of panic. Now she simply did it in order to breathe in what, for the first time in her life, was her space. Hers.

Opening her eyes, she focused on the wall, clean and damp with spackling, waiting for a base coat of light grey - the canvas for her credo. As she ran her eyes over every inch of it, color bloomed and spread, lines met and veered. The simple line drawing would remain blank. But surrounding it would be the twin to the dragon that looped from the back of her neck to the base of her spine, the flames that licked at her ribcage, the splashes of color that surrounded a hummingbird on her bicep- delicate, beautiful, flighty, but a flying needle to the eyes when threatened. Everything that was imprinted on her, she could see spreading across this wall.

She was ready to put everything she was into this venture. This was her future; really, it was all she had. And she would let nothing threaten it.

Her mind went to the long, blue envelope with the solicitor's return address in the corner, sitting in the bottom desk drawer. Slowly, she pulled her eyes away from the vision on the blank wall and flipped off the main banks of lights, leaving only a security light and the light streaming from her office, which she followed like it was a long strip of carpet across the floor.

Sitting at her grey, metal, industrial-anonymous desk, she stared at the lowest drawer with accusing eyes that would have seemed remarkably like those of the mistle thrush if she could see them in the mirror. There were no mirrors in her office.

She took a deep breath and let it out in something of a sob. Gripping the handle of the drawer so tightly her knuckles whitened, she yanked it open and fished out the envelope gingerly. The letter inside fell to the surface of the desk, and she picked it up to scan the contents yet again.

"_….not likely to garner a favorable response…. cannot proceed…. file with the county of Yorkshire…. must be done so that… as claimant, must have address on file…."_

The hand that did not sport a ring tightened around the letter and its well-meaning but crushing words. It had been a long shot, trying to have the correspondence sent care of "The Mighty Quinn's Tattoo Emporium."

Crumpling the letter, she flung it at the wall of her office and put her head in her hands. If she wished to continue the process, she'd have to provide a current address and trust in a legal system that had never been anything but hostile.

She had lied to the nice, older workman. She was a Missus. And she couldn't see how not to be.

Not if she wanted to be safe. Not if she wanted to live. And she very much wanted to live.

Breathing heavily through her nostrils, she went over to her drafting table and began digging into the filing cabinet to the side of it. Carefully, she set out her stencil sheets, her coiled tattoo machine, her finest needles, her black ink and her gloves. For a moment, she considered going into the store room and fetching the adjustable arm lamp she used on her table. Deciding she didn't want to shift things out of the way to get to her other equipment, she reached up and adjusted the standing lamp as best she could.

Donning her gloves after sanitizing her hands, she prepared the coil with the needles and the ink, cursing when she realized she was on her last cartridge and would have to order more for her personal use. Then donning a fresh pair of gloves, she scanned the inside of her left arm, finding a space just below her elbow. She cleaned it thoroughly, remembering always that an unsanitized incident is enough to shut down a tattoo parlor for months, if not years.

Changing her gloves again, she laid the stencil against the soft flesh on the underside of her arm and waited for it to transfer to her skin. The lettering she had prepared floated on the surface of her epidermis, waiting to be driven under her skin.

Phyllis hadn't planned on doing this one on this night. But it was as good a time as any.

With a hand that was steady and sure, she flipped the switch on the coiled machine and smiled as the burn of the needles tore through her arm. Every time she got a tat, the burn reminded her of how fire was used to cleanse and cauterize a wound, leaving behind damage, but healing nevertheless.

Effortlessly, she guided the machine along the calligraphy, stopping to wipe the area clean occasionally. It only took about fifteen minutes. Her skin was red and swollen; the words stood out angrily.

**THEY WERE WRONG**

She would find a way. Her hands automatically went through the process of cleaning the machine and disposing of the used needles, ink, and gloves while her mind spun and circled.

The smell of the gardenias made its subtle way into her nostrils as she slathered protective aloe onto her arm. She hoped that it would dissipate by morning and made a mental note to _not_ water them tomorrow. They couldn't last more than a few days.

As she locked everything securely and went out the back door, the motion sensor light came on, providing enough light to get situated on her scooter. The rasp of her jacket on her newly tattooed skin made her feel sharp and alert.

She pointed the scooter towards the road to Thirsk and putted away. If she was the type to give thanks, she'd have registered her gratitude with a Higher Power for the coolness of the breeze on her face that dried the tears she hadn't been aware she'd shed.

**A/N- Comments welcome!**


	3. The Local

The Local

Joe Molesley stared unseeingly at the clock on the wall of his shop. As the hands inched past 11am, he hunched his shoulders and waited. Within minutes, the thump of a heavy baseline began, making the wall that he shared with the tattoo shop next door shiver.

"Every Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday," he whispered to the striking, spreading Japanese Painted Fern, which was destined for the accent garden of a local manor house. His fingeres trembled as he misted the soil delicately.

When a muffled, raspy scream joined the baseline, he dropped the spray bottle.

"What in the name of God above _is_ that shite?!" he demanded of Jimmy. Jimmy, who had been unpacking cubes of floral foam and banging his head along with the music, immediately ceased his dance moves behind the counter.

"Ummm…some sort of death metal, I'd guess," he volunteered.

Joe gaped at him. His hands came up around the fronds of the plant, as if he was protecting it from hearing such an abomination.

"Death metal? It sounds like someone's bloody testicles are getting chewed off by stoats!" Jimmy grimaced at the image as Joe looked at the wall with disgusted wonder. "Do _you_ like this…music?"

"Well, I dunno…I've heard a bit, and it's not so bad really…" Jimmy stammered.

Joe's expression of disgusted wonder settled itself back on Jimmy, who shrunk back, knocking over a neat stack of green foam. A muscle worked in his jaw as he clenched his teeth.

The grand opening of Outside the Lines was three weeks ago, and Joe had spent every moment since vacillating between rage and helpless, flailing depression. He couldn't say that his business had suffered yet, but he waited on knife's edge for the penny to drop.

Yesterday, a large motorcycle, ridden by a huge man, had parked in front of his shop for four hours. Four bloody hours. Jimmy made one crack about "Hagrid" and Joe had stabbed a pH meter into the pot of a Peace Lily so hard it had come out the bottom. Potting soil spilled out everywhere, and he had spent the better part of an hour snapping at Jimmy, repotting it and whispering apologies into its shocked, stiff leaves.

He was a nervous wreck. The Madagascar Dragontree hadn't survived its root rot, the Rubber Tree he had rescued from the Council offices was struggling to regain ground in the sunniest window of Joe's cottage, and he'd accidentally overwatered the Ficus in his office, prompting Mr. Molesley Sr. to gently suggest to his son that he pull his head out of his arse and just go work things through with his new neighbor.

He had yet to set eyes on the owner of the shop. The contemptuous, tattooed Thomas, who dropped by frequently to distract Jimmy, was quite enough to be going on with.

"Mr. Molesley…?" Jimmy began tentatively. "I was wondering if I could take an early lunch?"

Before Joe could respond, another music track started up that bore a startling resemblance to sheet metal in a grinder. If anything, it was louder than the first track.

"No more,' he moaned.

"No more what, Mr. Molesley?"

Ignoring Jimmy, he gripped the spray bottle he'd retrieved from the floor and stalked to the door.

"Does this mean I can't take an early lunch?" Jimmy called after him in confusion.

"It's not going to be my testicles in the grinder any longer!" he shouted back at Jimmy, brandishing the spray bottle.

"Wot?"

Joe, slung the spray bottle across the shop, plowed through the door and stumbled out onto the sidewalk, forcing a young couple walking hand in hand to jump out of the way. He ignored their profanity laden reaction and marched over to stand in the doorway of the tattoo shop.

Thomas watched him from behind the counter, where he was sketching a bloody, dripping sword for a potential customer. He smirked and shook his head as Joe glared through the door.

"Have a seat, mate," he instructed the customer, pointing to a sofa and some chairs next to the front window. "I'll be with you about price in a tick."

Stepping towards the back of the store, he raised his voice to be heard over the music. "Hey Boss! Looks like our neighbor has finally dropped by!"

"Is he here for a tattoo, do you think?" Phyllis' voice floated from the back.

Thomas laughed. "He'll have to come through the door at least, if he wants one. He's got his nose pressed against the glass and if he glares any harder, his eyeballs will pop out and roll about on the sidewalk."

"Don't be an ass," she told him as she emerged, drying her hands on a towel. She'd been wondering when their neighbor would make an appearance. While not expecting a welcome bouquet, she was hoping their first meeting wouldn't be confrontational. Joe's furious face through the glass destroyed that.

"Come in already, you git, and let's get this over with," she muttered, making an impatient, beckoning gesture at him.

Joe bit his lip and pushed through the door into the roar of the music. His eyes flew around, and widened as it wasn't the dark, smoke-filled, circle of hell he was expecting.

"You must be Mr. Molesley," Phyllis said, looking him over. He stared at her. "Well…what can we do for you?" she asked, when it became obvious he wasn't going to say anything.

Joe could see her lips moving and heard sounds coming from them, but was unable to make out what she was saying. Instinctively, he cupped his hand around his ear and leaned closer.

Phyllis sighed and motioned for him to follow her to the back. He trailed after her, his eyes flying over the mural on the large, grey wall, the paintings and sketches hanging everywhere, and the piercing gun next to Thomas' heavily-postered corner. When she shut the door to her office behind them, the relative silence was abrupt.

"Have a seat, Mr. Molesley," she offered. He sank onto the love seat opposite the drafting table, ears still ringing.

Phyllis watched him shake his head and dig into his ear with his knuckle. Although he had looked furious at the door, he seemed more confused than angry now. He had dirt under his fingernails and dark circles under his eyes. When his eyes met her's, they widened comically. She found herself trying not to grin at how much he resembled an owl in a torch beam.

"Not what you thought it would be, is it?" she asked, suddenly curious to know if he would bluster or stammer in response.

Joe's mouth opened, but nothing came out. Finding it too uncomfortable to look directly into her eyes, his darted around her office, which was more or less in exactly the same size and in exactly the same place as his, next door.

Phyllis waited patiently, her head tipped slightly to one side and a little smile crooking at the corner of her mouth. Whatever he had come over to yell about seemed to have slipped his mind entirely.

"Ah…" he finally began. "Yes. I, um…well, I came to talk about the music, Missus Baxter."

She should have known. "Well…what about it, Mr. Molesley? And it's _Miss_."

"Miss what?" he asked in confusion.

"I"m not _Missus_ Baxter," she replied with an exasperated grimace.

"Oh…sorry," he apologized, the tips of his ears flushing red.

"What about it?" she repeated, drawing a line under that misunderstanding.

"What?"

"The _music_?" she said, voice raising in agitation. Was the man soft in the head?

"Oh. It's too bloody loud and it sounds like someone being tortured to death," he replied matter-of-factly.

To his surprise, she burst out in laughter. Joe didn't think this was any laughing matter, and he tried to look sternly at her. She laughed again at his constipated expression.

"I can hear it through the walls," he protested angrily. "It's disturbing my customers and its terrible for my plants! Neither of them likes it in the least. And neither do I." He folded his arms across his chest and tried not to be distracted by the way her shoulder length brown hair fell across her face when she bent over laughing. "It's not funny!"

Phyllis tried to stop laughing and treat his complaint seriously, but with every word he said, his face got redder. And when he mentioned how much his plants hated the music, she was off again.

"Sorry….sorry…" she gasped when he stood up like he was going to storm out. After taking several deep breaths and resolutely _not_ looking at his affronted face, she was able to calm down and smile at him. He stood at the door to her office, looking uncomfortable and indecisive.

"Fair enough," she told him. "We'll move the stereo to the opposite wall so it won't be so close. And I'll get Thomas to turn it down a bit."

He stared at her, wide eyed, and she felt a wave of irritation wash over her.

"What did you expect Mr. Molesley? That we'd be unreasonable and intentionally rude?"

That was exactly what Joe had expected, and he could feel his cheeks burning at her accusatory look as he averted his eyes."

"Well…I appreciate the consideration," he said stiltedly, trying to keep his dignity.

Phyllis rolled her eyes and huffed impatiently. "That's sorted, then. Was there anything else?"

"Ah…well…" He tried to think about the extensive list of things that were bothering him about the tattoo parlor. She watched him blink cluelessly for a moment, then strode past him and opened the door to her office. The music blared again.

"There was one thing…" he said to her back as she walked towards the front of the store. She didn't respond, and he wasn't sure if she hadn't heard or was ignoring him. He suspected it was the latter.

Phyllis walked on, wishing him gone, and went straight to the stereo, turning it down considerably.

"Oi!" Thomas barked. "The hell?" He glared at Phyllis and then at Joe, trailing after her uncertainly.

"It's a bit much next door," she said, giving Thomas a warning look across the room. "You can put up a shelf on your side of the shop and we'll shift the stereo."

Thomas gave them both a disgusted look and directed his attention back to etching a blade edge on his client's quivering flank. "Keep still, mate," he ordered, "Or it's gonna wind up being a scimitar."

"Um…thanks for that," Joe said to the room at large. Phyllis nodded and seemed to consider the matter closed. He wandered towards the door, stopping and doing a double take at a painting hanging on the wall. His eyes feasted on the blaze of color in Phyllis' rendering of a tangled, thorny shrub of Munstead Wood roses, deep red with undercurrents of purple. They shimmered, pressing on his eyes, making him blink.

"Magnificent," he breathed.

Phyllis watched him warily, wondering why he was staring at the picture and muttering under his breath. Deciding she'd had enough of him for one day, she cleared her throat, making him jump.

"If there's nothing else, Mr. Molesley, I've got things to do."

"Oh… right. Sorry. I was just…" He made a feeble gesture at the picture. receiving no response other than an impatient raise of her eyebrow, he stumbled on towards the door. As he was opening it, a sudden thought struck him.

"Oh yes," he said, turning back, "About the parking…"

"Bloody hell, aren't you gone yet?" Thomas growled, intending to be overheard but speaking just low enough to deny it.

Joe flushed and pulled himself up to his full height. Phyllis gripped the edge of the counter behind her back and wished she could clout both of them around the ear.

"Your customers can't be parking out front for hours at a time," he informed her officiously.

Her irritation became outright anger. "And you don't get to decide who can park where and for how long," she snapped at him. "Those spaces aren't marked or metered. Take it up with Council if you've got a bug up your ass about it."

Joe opened and closed his mouth furiously. Then he leveled a final glare at all of them and stomped out of the door. Without pausing, he burst through the door of his own shop, making the bell ring crazily, and hollered for Jimmy. Jimmy came skidding out of the back room with a look of concern.

"Go to lunch," he snapped at him. "In fact, take the rest of the bloody day if you want."

"Really?" Jimmy asked eagerly. He was pulling his apron over his head before Joe could even nod. He stopped when his eyes fell on a small stack of new orders, taken while Joe had been next door. "What about these?"

Joe barely spared them a glance. "I'll take care of them," he said grimly, as if he intended to storm a beach to attack them.

Jimmy, convinced that his boss had gone mad as a box of frogs, wasted no time departing. Joe stared out the front door as his assistant hurried away down the street to his car.

"Can you believe this? Can you bloody well _believe_ this?!" he asked the display arrangements. "Three generations we've been here, and this woman moves in and everything changes overnight." The display arrangements didn't exactly disagree.

With drawn eyebrows, Joe mechanically filled the orders without his usual meticulous attention to detail. He watched the clock, forgetting to eat lunch, obsessively counting down to when he could flip the sign on the door and go to the Grantham Arms to get absolutely pissed.

Thomas's sneering complaints about Mr. Molesley were starting to get on Phyllis' nerves and made her his unwilling defender. Three times throughout the rest of the day, he'd wandered over to the stereo to run it back up to its ear splitting volume, and three times she adjusted it and told him off. Finally, she threatened to run it through the autoclave. After due consideration, he decided she was serious and modified his complaints to rude mutterings under his breath.

After a slow afternoon and evening, she didn't fuss about closing down at 11pm. It was early for her, and she'd recently gotten into the habit of dropping by the local for a glass of wine whenever she'd close early. The Grantham Arms was a nice enough place and no one tried to chat her up. She thought that might have something to do with the proprietor. John Bates took no shit in his pub, his brooding presence behind the bar keeping patrons in line and out of her hair.

Feeling like a stroll, she walked the three blocks to the Arms, enjoying the night air. The crispness was leaching away to something warmer and more promising, and she felt her heart jump pleasantly. Business wasn't booming, but it was steady. Word was getting around, and they were getting referrals. She glanced down at her left arm as she passed under a streetlight, and pushed up the sleeve of her jacket to let the words tattooed there affirm her hopes.

She pushed through the door of the pub, into the dim, welcoming haze, and noticed it was livelier than usual. As her eyes adjusted and she moved to the bar, she suddenly realized why when a high pitched laugh drew her attention to a man with dirty fingernails and thinning hair staggering towards the dart board.

"Jus' one more game," he slurred happily to the three other men getting up from the table.

"Nah, Joe. S'late. Gotta be getting home to the Missus," Mr. McAllen stated firmly. "Or I'll be back in your shop first thing tomorrow to make it up to her."

Phyllis nearly turned around and left the pub. But John saw her and called to her from behind the bar.

"Evening, Phyllis. Glass of red?"

With a sigh, she slid onto a stool and nodded. She watched Joe trying to convince his mates to go another round out of the corner of her eye with perplexed amusement. John saw her glance over when he brought her the wine and smiled.

"Joe's been going strong since 6pm," he said in a low voice.

Phyllis winced a little, suspecting that their first meeting might be the cause of his excess. "Does he do this often?"

"Not really. Every once in a while… I'm about to cut him off. I doubt he's eaten tonight."

"Mizz Baxter," Joe warbled from the dart board, having finally caught sight of her. "Fancy a go?" He waved the darts at her with a big grin.

"I don't think so, Mr. Molesley," she replied with a roll of her eyes. She wasn't sure how he was even upright; the thought of trying to go a round of darts with him made her shudder. "Some other time, maybe."

Maybe never. She turned back to the bar and sipped her drink, hoping he would take the hint.

He didn't.

"We could play for stakes," he said with less jocularity. "How about another pint, John?"

"Nope," said John, wiping down the bar. He cocked an eyebrow at Joe, as if daring him to argue. Joe pouted.

"Well…what about it, Mizz Baxter? We could throw for parking spaces."

She glared at him briefly, then looked away, shaking her head.

"Why not take a chance?" he continued, ignoring John's warning look. "You new biz..biznuss types are used to taking chances, making changes n'all. Not like us what never do anything new…or take up more than our fair share of parking spaces."

Phyllis put down her wine glass a bit harder than necessary. "Refill please, John," she requested, ignoring Joe entirely. John obliged, then looked pointedly at Joe.

"It's about time you went home, Joe. Shall I call you a cab?"

"You'll bloody well have to. You took me keys…" He focused blearily on his watch, "…'bout three hours ago." He looked at them both with a thoroughly pathetic expression.

"How'm I gonna get in to work tomorrow wi'out me van?" he moaned.

"Call your dad," John replied with a shrug.

"Can't. He failed the damn eye test. Now I've got to haul him around to everything." Seeming surprised at his own bitter tone, Joe looked up apologetically at Phyllis and John. "I didn't mean that t'way it sounded."

I'll call you a ride, Joe," John said firmly, and moved down the bar a bit to call from the mobile.

"Bloody hell," Joe moaned. "I've got no luck." He sat down next to Phyllis, who prayed he wasn't about to be sick.

"I've got bloody biznuss tied round me neck…can't let Dad down. Now this new shop…"

Phyllis realized that he had completely forgotten who he was talking to.

"…this new bloody _tattoo_ shop…bra' new biznuss." He threw up his head and glared at Phyllis who stared back at him impassively. "Bra' new with lots of porm…promise ahead…bri' and clean. Who 'ver heard of a _nice_ tattoo shop?"

"You clearly don't know the first thing about tattoo shops," she replied, taking a sip of her wine.

"I don' know the firs' thing about _anything_!" he shouted in her face, leaning perilously towards her. She recoiled instantly, jumping off her stool, and brought up her glass to throw what was left of her wine in his face. He yelped and swiped at his eyes.

"You're barred, Joe!" John bellowed as he hung up the phone and rushed over to them. "You all right, Phyllis?" She nodded, shaking with reaction, and flexed her fingers tightly around her empty glass, as if she was holding back hurling it at Joe.

"I care fuck all, John," he said with tears running down his face. "I'll care t'morrow. T'night it's just me life and me biznuss and I got no future that matters while this…this woman changes everything round my shop like s'nothin at all. Nothin!" He put his head wearily into his hands. "'m I getting a cab, John?"

"Damn it," John swore quietly. "I couldn't get you a cab, Joe. It's gone midnight. One's gone home and the other is making a last run to Ripon."

"I'll walk," he said, standing up too quickly and falling over the bar. John rolled his eyes. "Wouldn't do for my life to be too easy, would it…?"

Phyllis was grateful to be ignored for a moment. She could feel her heart resume a normal rhythm and her body quit shaking. As she recovered, she moved smoothly from flight to fight.

"You pathetic wanker," she said with all the contempt she could muster, not even looking at him. "Get's a business you do well at handed to you on a silver, bloody platter. And you want to whinge in your beer about my risky start-up that I spent over ten years working and saving for." Standing to go, she waved off John's apologies. "Not your fault, John. The drink's not his friend."

"Goodnight, Phyllis," John called to her as she left. He glared at a shocked Joe with annoyance. "I suppose I'll have to get you home."

"I'll walk," Joe reiterated, standing up slowly, but with as much dignity as he could muster. "I think I've damn well scoo…screwed up enough peoples' nights 'thout taking you away from your family."

"Don't be stupid, Joe," John called after him as he stumbled to the door. "You live miles from here."

"Walk'll do me good," he muttered. "Give me time to figure out how the hell I'm gonna apologize to Mizz Baxter."

All of his intentions collapsed as quickly as his legs did once he got out into the night. Joe slumped against the wall of the sundries store and scooted down until he was sitting with his head slumped over his knees.

Phyllis had lingered outside of the Arms, taking deep breaths and trying to clear her head. She zipped up her jacket and watched as Joe made his way out of the pub and get half a block away before collapsing against the wall. Knowing she'd have to pass him, or go blocks out of her way, to get back to the shop and her scooter, she hoped he'd fallen asleep.

Her steps slowed as she got closer to him. He wasn't the sobbing, puking wretch she expected to see. Instead he leaned against the wall, with his arms wrapped around his knees, staring off into the street. She tried to skirt past him.

"I'll be by tomorrow to 'pologize," he said as she went past.

"Don't bother," she replied before wishing she'd said nothing and just kept walking. Still…she didn't want him showing up on the day she only saw appointments, taking her time with meaningless words of remorse he didn't mean.

"I won't if you don't want me to. I'm not a bastard. Not really."

Why wouldn't her feet walk on? He most certainly wasn't the first drunk she'd ever dealt with. Just walk on, maybe crash on the settee in her office - that second glass of wine combined with an adrenaline rush had been ill advised.

Her mind berated her as a soft bleeding idiot as she knelt down to look into his eyes and make sure he hadn't hit his head. He stared back at her hopelessly.

"I don't even know who I am anymore," he slurred, looking ashamed. "I hardly ever cut loose; I'm the sappy happy drunk who dances like a fool, never gets stroppy and who embarrasses himself at kerok…krako…karaoke."

A little smile crossed her face at this image. It made more sense than the belligerent, maudlin man of tonight.

"I really am sorry. Not just for t'night…but especially for t'night." His eyelids dropped over cloudy eyes, and he seemed to about to fall asleep.

"I'd give you a lift home, Mr. Molesley, but I've got a scooter, see…"

"I'd go arse over tip right off t'back," he said with a snort of laughter. "Fer Christ's sake, just call me Joe. Mr. Molesley is Dad, an' I don' wanna think about him righ' now. I'll be hearing enough about it later."

Phyllis bit her lip in thought and looked up and down the empty street. If she left him here to sleep it off, he'd freeze or get nicked by the constable. At the moment, he looked like the least threatening man in Yorkshire.

Rolling her eyes and wondering why she didn't just leave him, she took his arm with one hand and put her other on his back to lever him up.

"Up you get." She hauled him shakily to his feet, watching his eyes go wide in confusion and a touch of fear. "Take it slow," she ordered, "and if you puke on me, I'm dropping you right there."

Joe nodded and winced as the world spun around. Taking small steps and leaning heavily on Phyllis, they made their slow way back towards their shops.

"Yer stronger than you look," he observed, as she kept him upright.

"I've had to be," she replied.

"Not that I'm looking at you," he hastened to assure her. At her amused look, he backtracked. "I mean, I look at you, but not like…I mean you're…but I wouldn't…"

"The tats put you off," she teased as she propped him against the window of her shop and dug into her pocket for her key.

"No! Not at all. I don't think… well, actually, I've not seen very many of them…"

"And you're not likely to," she said with a chuckle. "In you go." She steered him to the long sofa in the front. He dropped onto it with a grateful sigh.

"Thanks for not having me up for assault," he muttered as he stretched out. Phyllis brought an afghan out of her office and tossed it at him, her face like a stone carving.

"I'm trying to get out of that habit," she muttered. He blinked in confusion. "Never mind. Go to sleep, Joe."

"I think I will." His eyelids drooped and a smile spread across his face as he squinted and focused on the picture that had captured him earlier in the day. "That's beautiful."

"What is?"

"The roses."

She spared it a glance and looked down at his closed eyes. With a shake of her head, she headed towards the back to spend the night curled up on the love seat in her office. Not for the first time.

"Goodnight, Joe."

"G'night, Phyllis."

**A/N- So...what do you think?**


	4. The Compromise

The Compromise

Joe Molesley's first thought was that apparently, there was coffee in hell.

His next thought was that he couldn't possibly be in hell if there was coffee. Coffee that was sitting on a small tray next to the sofa; coffee that was still warm enough to send steam into the air of the room. And through that steam, he could see Phyllis Baxter sitting in an armchair, wearing black leggings and a tank top, smirking at him.

Clearly this wasn't hell. It was the tattoo shop. QED.

Regardless of his current location, he felt like hell. Sunlight pressed unmercifully on his eyeballs. When he squeezed them shut in protest, it felt like a fine sheen of broken glass coated his eyelids. And when he shut them quickly, it made his head echo and pound like a one cylinder engine trying to drive on a road made of toffee.

He clutched the side of his head and groaned. As he began to remember why he was sleeping on the sofa in the tattoo shop, he groaned again. His mind hadn't worked itself around to Phyllis Baxter in a tank top yet, but he was confident he could tackle that in a few weeks.

He didn't get a few weeks. As he pried one eye carefully open, Phyllis leaned forward to hand him a glass of water and three pharmecetols. His vision wavered and things went in and out of focus. One thing that did swim into clarity were the tattoos that covered her right arm down to the wrist - a burst of disparate images on her forearm and an intricate web covering from her elbow over her shoulder.

As he reached for the glass, his eyes followed the web until they lit on a menacing, deep black spider with a collection of startlingly expressive eyes. It was so abrupt and realistic that he shied backwards with a little yelp, spilling most of the water on his arm.

"Bloody hell," he croaked hoarsely. Clearing his throat loudly, he tried again to grip the water glass and sit up to take his pain relievers. He was careful not to look directly at Phyllis, convinced he'd see a generous helping of contempt and derision if he did.

Phyllis _was_ somewhat amused, but not at all contemptuous. She was rather chuffed that her tat could elicit that sort of response. Of course, he was hung over enough to see spiders where there weren't any. But still…

They sat in silence as Joe choked down the medicine and leaned his head back on the sofa with his arm over his face. After a few moments, he began talking earnestly into his elbow.

"I am so very sorry for what happened last night," he mumbled.

"Are you talking to me?" Phyllis said over-loudly, smiling as she watched him cringe.

He took his arm away and lifted his head. Fixing bloodshot, miserable eyes on hers, he sighed heavily.

"I don't how I can convince you that I'm not usually like this."

"You mean hung over?"

"No, I mean…well, yes. I'm not usually hung over because I don't usually drink like that. And I don't usually get out of control like that. And I don't usually make a total ass of myself and get barred from the Arms… John did say I was barred, didn't he? I didn't just dream that?"

"You are definitely barred," she confirmed with a sympathetic nod. "But I imagine he'll reinstate you eventually."

"Probably for the best if he doesn't," Joe mumbled morosely at the floor.

Phyllis rolled her eyes and held out the cup of coffee that had ushered him into consciousness. When he didn't take it immediately, she pushed it impatiently at him.

"Quit feeling sorry for yourself," she ordered.

His head snapped up and he winced at the sudden motion. He reached out automatically for the coffee and cupped his hands around it, feeling the heat work its way through his hands and into his body before he even took a sip.

"I don't even have the energy to resent that," he said sadly.

"I'm sure you'll resent it eventually," she assured him, giving in to the urge to pat him on the top of his thinning hair.

"Did you just…?" He tipped his head to one side while he tried to work out if it bothered him that she had just patted him like he was a sad basset hound. "Oh God…I'm pathetic."

"Maybe a little," she agreed gently, smiling at the affronted expression making its way across his face. "Drink your coffee, Joe. The hang-over won't last forever, then you can slip right back into your regularly scheduled self-righteous crisis of the day."

"I'm getting less sorry about yelling at you," he muttered, making Phyllis smile broadly. "You threw a drink in my face, didn't you?"

"I did. And I'll do it again if you ever get in my face like that again. You'll be lucky if all you get is a bit of wine in your eyes." Phyllis watched him carefully and was pleased to see his face crumple in regret.

"Um…I'm particularly sorry for that, Phyllis. I would never hurt…I didn't mean to seem like I would…"

"You wouldn't have woken up on my sofa if I thought you were the type to hurt me," she said firmly. "You were an ass, and you startled me. That's all."

Joe thought he heard something in her voice that belied her brushing the incident off. Something rattled around in his memory about the night before - the expression on her face when he'd gotten belligerent, like metal shutters closing down over a window in the face of a storm. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he was afraid that he had been somewhat worse than just an ass.

Phyllis watched his expression change as he sat there thinking something out, and she revised her initial impression of him. Perhaps he wasn't as thick and self-centered as she had thought.

"Why have you got a bar code tattooed on your arm?" he asked suddenly.

Her eyebrows flew up. "Why not?" she deflected, looking over his shoulder out the window.

"Is that a common design for—"

He was interrupted by a banging from next door and shouting. Turning his head slowly, he looked out of the window to see Jimmy banging on the shop door, hollering his name.

"What time is it?" he asked with a quiver of panic.

"It's gone nine," she said, checking the clock. "Quarter after, actually."

"Oh no…" he groaned, getting shakily to his feet. "Oh no… I should have been open fifteen minutes ago!"

"Wait!" she called as he headed for the door as quickly as he could manage, bouncing off the arm of the sofa on the way. She cringed as he tried to push the door open only to run into it face first. "It's locked!"

"Obviously," he snapped, grimacing in pain. "Would you open it please? Jimmy'll be yelling for an hour; it wouldn't occur to him to call me on my cell to see what's going on."

She unlocked the door and watched as he staggered down the sidewalk to where Jimmy was still gamely banging on the door.

"Jimmy, stop it! For God's sake!" he bellowed as loud as he could, feeling his eyes pop as he clutched his head. Jimmy spun around with a truly comical look of shock on his face and stared at Joe with his mouth open.

"Oh my God, Mr. Molesely! What happened to you?"

"Nothing. Nothing happened to me," he insisted, swaying on his feet, closing one eye, and trying not to bend over and vomit on Jimmy's shoes. "Just had a little too much last night and overslept."

Jimmy looked at him in confusion, then looked over at Phyllis standing in the doorway trying not to giggle too loud at the scene. Then he looked back at Joe with dawning comprehension.

As a knowing grin spread across Jimmy's face, Joe pressed his face against the glass door of his shop and tried to get his shop key into the lock. The flower displays and potted plants were basking the sunlight that made it through the windows and illuminated the dust motes in a wild dance that made him dizzy. Giving up on the keys, he shoved them into Jimmy's hand, ignoring his startled look.

"Go ahead and open up," he ordered weakly. "I'll…I'll be along once I've got cleaned up and all." Jimmy blinked at him. "And don't water the ferns no matter how late I am; I'll do them when I get here."

With that, Joe left Jimmy standing on the sidewalk and walked slowly back to the tattoo shop, placing his feet down carefully so as not to jar his eyeballs loose. He sighed irritably as he passed Phyllis laughing in the doorway and sat down heavily on the sofa again. Picking up his now lukewarm coffee, he shut his eyes and sipped.

Phyllis walked over to the coffeepot sitting on the counter and poured herself another cup. She looked over at him, expecting another stream of apologies, or perhaps a series of reasons why his life was shite.

"Might I have another cup?" he asked, holding out his mug.

She smiled in sympathy and brought the pot over to pour him another. He was clearly taking the opportunity to check out more of her tattoos, but unlike past experiences of men's eyes crawling over her, it didn't make her uncomfortable. In fact, he seemed to be taking her in like he would a picture or a statue that he liked, but didn't understand. She hadn't blushed in years, but she wondered if she might be at that moment.

"John has my van keys, I suppose?"

"You weren't in any fit state to drive."

"Course not. When John thinks you've had enough, you hand over the keys, or he'll turn you upside and shake you until they fall out of your pocket."

"He never has," she replied with a laugh, trying to picture polite, quiet John Bates, who walked with a slight limp, manhandling his regulars.

"He only had to do it once," Joe replied, holding up a hand like he was swearing on a Bible. "Nobody argues with him now." He smiled a bit as she laughed some more. "And before you ask," he went on, "it wasn't me who needed the lesson."

"I'm sure."

"Are you? I could act the lad once, you know…"

Phyllis just rolled her eyes and wondered why men thought being an immature arsehole was something to brag about. She ought to shoo him out the door and get ready for her appointment with Megg to begin the process of tattooing her bird. But as she watched him drink his coffee and pout a bit, she didn't feel any rush to be rid of him.

He sighed heavily and looked at her with a resigned expression. "I don't have my keys and can't remember where I parked anyway, so I don't have anyway to get home and clean up or change…" He looked out of the window towards his shop. "I suppose it doesn't matter. What little respect I commanded from my shop assistant is blown now."

"I doubt Jimmy will judge you too harshly," she assured him, thinking that it would be the opposite if the shoe was on the other foot.

"If it were him coming in looking like a cat's ass and smelling like a pub floor, I'd tear strips off of him," he admitted.

"Look," she began hesitantly. "I only work by appointment on Thursdays, and I've only got one today. I'll go by the Arms and get your keys from John and bring them over to you, alright?"

"You'd do that?"

"You'll wind up sleeping on my sofa again if I don't," she said smartly.

Joe grinned, as he contemplated that he wouldn't really mind it all that much if he did.

"Thank you, Phyllis. I appreciate that. I do."

She waved off his gratitude. "No worries. Now, if you're capable of walking, get on with you and let me get to work."

Joe drank the last of his coffee and thanked Phyllis again, stammering a bit. She watched him walk into his shop, squeezing his temples and grimacing, then went about the task of setting up for her customer. Carefully selecting a playlist, she set up a screen around her station, got her equipment set up, and threw on a sweater to walk to the grocery for her lunch and selection of snacks and drinks.

Some customers are more special than others.

Joe had ascertained that the shop was quiet and took a handful of orders into the back room to work on them in peace. Jimmy let him be, although the grin he still wore was annoying, to say the least.

"Stop being so bloody happy," Joe snapped at him. "You look like you just invented teeth."

Jimmy was momentarily discouraged, but every time he remembered how Mr. Molesley had looked staggering up the sidewalk from the tattoo parlor where he'd _obviously_ spent the night with the owner, his grin resurfaced.

Joe found himself in his office, the worst of his hang over receding, trying to decide what he needed to order for the spring bulb season. As he flipped through the catalogues, his mind wandered back to the morning he had spent in the tattoo shop, and he couldn't seem to shake that first image of Phyllis in a tank top.

"You'll never believe what happened," he murmured to the Ficus. The Ficus, still recovering from its over-watering misadventure, seemed incurious. "I'm bloody lucky I didn't wind up nicked. Not that you'd care."

Joe was beginning to get tired of talking to the plants.

"Mr. Molesley," Jimmy hollered from the front. "Someone to see you."

Joe looked at the clock, aware that Jimmy had locked the door and flipped the sign thirty minutes before. "I don't post the bloody hours sign for my own benefit," he muttered as he made his way to the front.

Phyllis was standing next to the counter, looking around and appreciating the artfulness of the displays. Jimmy had tried his usual string of patter that he used with all female customers, but Phyllis had shut him down with a look. She was twirling the keys to his van around on her index finger.

"Oh! You got them," he said with a smile as he came through. "I hope it wasn't too much trouble."

"I just popped in and asked Anna for them," she said with a shrug, placing them in Joe's hand. She didn't mention that she'd spent ten minutes describing how hung over and sorry Joe was this morning, hoping his repentance would lift the ban faster.

"Oh…so I guess Anna knows what an ass I made of myself," he said in a low voice, making sure that Jimmy was on the other side of the shop.

Phyllis just raised an eyebrow in response. Joe grimaced and looked at the floor.

"I'm off then, Mr. Molesley!" Jimmy called. "Are we…um, opening at the regular time tomorrow?"

Joe looked at him with narrowed eyes, suspecting him of taking the piss. Jimmy looked back with his best innocent expression.

"Regular time," he confirmed.

Jimmy was off with a wave and a grin. An awkward silence settled in the shop. Joe kept opening his mouth to make conversation, then shutting it again because everything he thought to say sounded stupid.

"What's this called?" Phyllis asked, examining a hanging basket.

"Oh, that. That's a particularly fine example of _Asplenium trichmanes_, also known as Maidenhair spleenwort—"

"You're joking!"

"What?

"Maidenhair spleenwort? Who makes up names like that? Teenaged fantasy role-players?"

Joe snorted with laughter. "Spleenwort is a type of fern, and I presume that someone, somewhere, thought it looked rather maidenish."

Phyllis shook her head and fingered the fronds thoughtfully. "I like the way it looks, even if the name is ridiculous. It's small and close to the stem part, but it isn't delicate."

"No, it's not," he replied. "It grows well in rocky areas and in a wide range of temperatures. Not delicate at all, really." He found himself looking more at Phyllis and less at the fern, and wondered why he wasn't being driven to teeth clenching rage watching a non-paying customer fondle the fern.

"Would you like some dinner?" he asked suddenly. At her surprised look, he hastened to add: "I mean…it feels like I, I owe you. For helping me out and being so…well, I'd just like to, to show I appreciate it."

Phyllis had to smile at his stammering. "I don't think—"

"It's just dinner," he blurted. "You won't have to surrender your independence, or anything."

"Good to know," she replied dryly, watching him flush. "But as I was saying, I don't think I can tonight. I've got another appointment in an hour."

"Oh." Joe brightened up a little. Not a complete rejection, then. "Another time?"

"Well, you do owe me…" He grinned and she found herself grinning back. "No drinks first, though. And I'd think you'd want to get freshened up first."

"Oh. Right. I'd forgotten." He looked down at his rumpled clothes and wrinkled his nose.

"Good night, Joe."

"Good night, Phyllis." He walked her to the door and saw her out.

"Did I just ask her on a date?" he asked the sassy arrangement of mums in the front window. "I think I just asked her for a date." The mums didn't bother commenting about the obvious. "I haven't asked anyone out on a date in…years? Yeah, years."

Home, then. Time to get cleaned up and spend an evening wondering exactly what happened to him to make him actually ask someone out.

It beat regretting everything.

* * *

"You're joking me!" Thomas said loudly, giving Jimmy a little shove.

"I'm not neither," Jimmy replied with a grin. "He came out of your shop, just as tenderized as you like. Never seen him like that before. And your boss was watching from the door."

"Was she now?" Thomas looked speculatively at the shop as he ground his cigarette out under his foot. A thoroughly evil grin spread across his face. "Wonder if we're starting a sexual exchange program…"

"A what? What do you…? You don't think they were…they are…?"

"I don't give a rat's ass one way or the other," Thomas replied, grinning at Jimmy. "Phyllis can do whatever she like to whomever she likes and it's no skin off my ass. But it's been a long time since I've had one over on her."

Jimmy was about to reply when Joe stuck his head out of the shop door and called him.

"I'm not paying you to gossip on the sidewalk," he grumbled, glaring at Thomas. Thomas smiled at him and waggled his eyebrows.

"I've got a customer coming in, Jimmy. Talk to you later," he said, winking broadly at Jimmy. He sauntered into the shop and watched Phyllis work on an intricate tribal tattoo encircling a man's bicep. The thin, blond fellow looked about as tribal as Donald Duck.

"So, boss…how was yesterday? Any appointments?"

"Two," she said shortly, not looking up. Phyllis had seen him out talking to Jimmy on the sidewalk and knew exactly what was going through Thomas' head.

"Must have been tough working through a thick head," he said in a low voice.

"Joe Molesley had the thick head," she replied, "as I'm sure you've heard." She finished the area she was working on and raised her head to stare at Thomas. "Take that anyway you like. You will no matter what."

She patted her customer's arm reassuringly. "Take a break if you need one, Graham. We're halfway there."

Her customer grimaced and looked anxiously at his arm. "Only halfway?" he asked, his voice breaking.

Thomas snorted. Phyllis jerked her head at him, indicting that they should move away from the customer.

"He's not exactly a Zulu warrior, is he?" Thomas sneered.

"I don't care if he's Little Bo Peep," she said in a low voice, brimming with anger. "He's come in for a tattoo and he'll pay for the whole thing whether or not he can take it. Don't make it harder for him."

"Fine..fine…"

"And don't you _ever_ even insinuate that I work impaired, you cocked-up shit-stirrer."

"I wasn't…"

"Just shut up, Thomas. Your customer is here. Go do the work you do so well and leave off speculating about my sex life until you're on your own time. Or better yet, go get one of your own."

She spun away and returned to her sweating customer. Thomas stared after her for a moment.

"That could have gone better," he muttered.

* * *

It felt wrong to complain when the business was going well, but Phyllis was tired. She bit her tongue to avoid getting shirty with a group of jovial young people who wandered in after midnight on a Wednesday morning to browse the flash sketches and talk excitedly of the full sleeve tattoos they were going to get one day.

"And how much for a steampunk, robot type arm from my shoulder down to my wrist? What do you call that again?"

"Biomechanical," she said with a smile she didn't feel. "And what you're talking about would probably take three to five sessions, spread out over a few months, and would run you easily about 1000 quid."

"No fucking way!"

"If you want it done right," she replied, not surprised when the group went back to looking through the ready made tats.

"What would it cost to do me mum's name?" asked one of the girls shyly. "She passed last year."

"That would depend on the lettering, but probably 70 quid or less."

"Could we do it tonight? Before I lose me nerve?"

"I could," Phyllis said reluctantly, peering at the girl to asses if she was impaired in any way, "but it'd be best if you thought it over for a couple of days. You might regret an impulse tat, no matter how much you think you might want it now."

She barely restrained a groan as the door opened and another three young people wandered in.

"How 'bout you do me a tat of his face on me arse!" one of them yelled, pushing his mate hard on the shoulder.

"How 'bout you three piss off until you're sober," Phyllis snapped at them.

"How 'bout you go fuck yerself," he replied with a leer.

"Out. And don't bother coming back when you're sober," she ordered, clenching her hand around the lead weighted cosh they kept behind the counter. After some nasty remarks and a few drunken threats, they cleared off.

The first group who had watched it all unfold laughed and joked nervously once the drunk trio had left. Phyllis' face remained grim and stern, and the atmosphere wasn't as easy-going as it had been. They spent a few more minutes browsing, then left quietly. Phyllis locked the door behind them, never mind if it wasn't 1am yet.

She was putting everything at her station in order when she heard a faint tap on the glass of the door. Hoping it wasn't the drunk kids back for more trouble, she looked warily around and saw Joe Molesley on the other side.

"What the bloody hell…?"

Joe saw that he had her attention and waved. She shook her head, but went over to the door and opened it for him.

"Just happened to be out and about planting bulbs at midnight, Joe?"

"No," he said with a little laugh, "I was at the hospital with Dad. He's had a bad spell and… he's not doing so good right now. I was on my way back to the cottage and I saw your lights…"

"I'm sorry about your dad, Joe," she said gently. He nodded and shrugged, but he couldn't hide the lines of worry on his face.

"Thanks for that," he said, trying to smile. "He'll be alright, Dad will. Us Molesleys are tougher than average." He looked around the empty tattoo parlor absently. "Am I bothering you? You're closing up, I suppose."

"Yeah. I'm a little early tonight. Had a group of drunk assholes earlier and I didn't want to them come wandering back and make me beat them around the head." She smiled as if she was kidding, but Joe looked at her seriously.

"There's a couple of wankers down the block, smoking and making a ruckus. One of them acted like he was going to throw something at my van."

"Sounds like them," she said casually.

Joe stood awkwardly in front of her, his hands twitching. He clearly wanted to say something. Phyllis sat down in one of the armchairs with a sigh, folding her legs up under her, and indicated he should take a seat.

"Now…let's see," she began, "you're worried about my safety? You're wondering if you should offer me a ride home to Thirsk? And you don't want me to be insulted by any of this? Am I right?"

Joe's mouth had dropped open during this recitation and all he could do was nod.

"I'm not insulted, Joe. But I've been dealing with gormless jackasses like this for years." She smiled, wondering why she was trying so hard to put his mind at ease. "I know how to assess a threat."

"You let me in," he pointed out. "I could be dangerous, Phyllis."

Phyllis laughed hard enough to slump over in her chair, while Joe looked disgruntled at her hilarity.

"I know how to asses a threat," she repeated, gasping for breath. "And you're no threat, Joe. Sorry to disappoint you."

"Well, I wasn't hoping to be a gormless jackass…"

"Even when you are a gormless jackass, you're not a threat," she reminded him. "I may well have seen you at your worst."

Joe cocked his head and looked at her as if he was thinking hard. The overlarge shirt she was wearing was slipping off her shoulder and distracting him more than he liked to admit.

"It would be nice to have an air of _something_ about me," he muttered. "I'm right bloody tired of being nothing much."

"Then be something different," she advised. "There's more to Joe Molesley than a flower shop, the occasional bender, and self-righteous priggery."

"Well, that's inspiring," he replied sarcastically. "Maybe I'll get a tattoo."

Phyllis rolled her eyes. "Great idea. A tattoo will change everything about you."

"You don't have much in the way of suggestive sales."

"Joe, all a tattoo does is mark something on your body indelibly. If something has that kind of meaning for you, be it art or a memory or some sort of statement, then by all means, get a tattoo. I'll schedule you with Thomas—"

"You wouldn't!"

"I would. If you're stupid enough to get an impulse tattoo, I'll make sure Thomas knows to provide you with the most lurid skeletal nightmare he's ever done.

"Do you analyze all your customers?" he asked a bit irritably.

They both tried to hide yawns at the same time, and laughed at each other.

"That's enough of this tonight—"

"But what if I really do want to get a tattoo?" he interrupted. "Would you do me one?"

"Joe," she said wearily, "what have you got in your life right now that is so meaningful you want it depicted on your body for the rest of your life?"

"Well…I'd have to think about it…"

"Good. Think long and hard about it," she ordered.

"Do _all_ of your tattoos have some special meaning?"

"Yes," she replied shortly, hoping the tone of her voice would end the conversation. But Joe was either too tired, or too caught up in himself to hear it.

"So…the bar code? What's that about?"

"Why do you care about the bar code?"

"It's so different from the rest of your tattoos. Or at least, the ones I've seen. Is it a real bar code? Have you scanned it?"

"No, Joe, I haven't scanned it," she muttered through gritted teeth.

"So the numbers are random?"

"No, they're not. Are you sure you want to know, Joe? Are you _quite_ sure?"

"Er…I, well, I think so." He looked at her closed off expression and had second thoughts. "If you don't want to say…"

Phyllis stared at him until he began to squirm. Then she seemed to come a decision.

"Well, it's not like it's a secret," she said flatly. "Anyone who wanted to know could find out quickly enough."

"Find out what?"

Phyllis ran her finger along the barcode and the number printed above it. She could recite it automatically, but she ran her eyes across it as she recited the digits.

"This was my number, given to me by Her Majesty, when I served at her pleasure at HMP Holloway from 1987 to 1990." She looked directly into Joe's eyes as she said it. All she saw at first was confusion.

"HMP Holloway? What's HMP Hollo…" His eyes widened as it clicked in his tired mind. "Wait…is that a prison?"

"Yes."

His eyes filled with horror. "They tattooed that number on you in prison?! Can they do that?!"

"Bloody hell, Joe!" she shouted. "It's a British women's prison, not a Nazi concentration camp, you idiot." She took a deep breath and tried to calm down. Joe looked utterly perplexed and his eyes wide with concern.

"This tattoo was the first one I got when I got out, before I even started my apprenticeship with a tattoo artist," she explained.

"You got it…to remember?" he asked.

"I got it so I'd never, ever forget what it meant to be turned into a number and a case file for all anyone ever gave a single fucking damn. _That's_ what I mean by _meaningful_, Joe."

"Oh." He stared at her, stunned into silence, afraid to say anything for fear of saying the wrong thing.

"Go home. Get some sleep. Go visit your dad tomorrow," she ordered. "And I'll do you a deal…wait a while before you talk to me about a tattoo, and I'll consider doing you one, alright?"

"Fair enough. But will I be able to ask about tattoos, or can't I talk about them at all?"

"Tattoos in general, or mine?"

"Uh…"

"Goodnight, Joe." She stood up and pointedly walked to the door. He followed obediently, wanting to say something more, but didn't when he observed how tired she looked.

"What is it, Joe?"

"Nothing. Nothing I need to know, anyway." Without thinking, he gently pulled the neck of her oversized shirt back up over her shoulder. Her eyes widened at his touch. "Goodnight."

Joe didn't turn around when he heard the door lock behind him. He went straight to his van and sat in the driver's seat, his mind spinning and his fingers tingling from where they had accidentally brushed her shoulder.

For the life of him, he didn't know what was happening.

**A/N: I'd love to know what you think about what's happening.**


	5. The Tattoo

The Tattoo

She hadn't seen him in a few days - not even going in and out of his shop. She hadn't seen his van parked out back. Yesterday, the shop didn't open at all. She didn't bother going to read the sign on the door.

They were busy and Thomas was distracted lately. She had a lot on her plate. So she didn't waste a lot of time wondering why she thought about Joe at odd moments and wondered if he'd pop by again, now that he knew she'd done time. She wasn't sure why she was watching to try to see him, but she was too busy to think about it. Except when she wasn't.

"I've really got too much to do to, and it's not my business about what he's up to," she informed the Direwolf sigil she was designing for a Game of Thrones fanatic. The Direwolf grinned toothily at her.

She laid her graphite to one side and watched Thomas work on someone he'd met in Ripon and convinced to come to Downton for his tattoo. She tipped her head to one side, trying to figure out why the young man would want a Union Jack draped velociraptor, smoking a pipe on his shoulder blade. Deciding to chalk it up to some sort of odd confluence of fandoms, she indicated to Thomas that she was taking a break.

"Don't be gone long," Thomas shouted over the music blasting by his station. "If you haven't checked the appointment book, you've got a customer in about an hour."

"I have. Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere."

Phyllis stepped out of the front door and shut it firmly behind her. The music subsided to a muffled scream and she took a deep breath of the evening air. It was definitely starting to feel warmer.

She strolled down the block, towards Joe's shop. Not that she was intending to read the sign, or to bother about where he'd been for the last few days. The curb was too far away for her to make it out. With a sigh, she moved closer.

_Temporarily closed. Orders left on the phone will be filled as soon as possible. Thank you for your patience. Joe Molesley, proprietor._

She bit her lip in thought and wondered if it was about his dad. Mr. Molesley the Elder must not be getting any better if Joe wasn't opening the shop at all. She ran her hand lightly over the door handle, then stepped back and returned to her shop.

The music assaulted her as she walked in and checked the appointment book again. A walk-in from three days ago must have made up his mind and made an appointment. She watched absently out the front windows as the sun set, and hoped in the back of her mind that the appointment would be a no-show.

She was not so fortunate. The bloke was determined to get a cocker spaniel on his bicep, in memory of his beloved companion. And he'd brought a somewhat out of focus photo of a deranged looking canine with a tennis ball in its mouth.

"And you really want the tattoo to look like this?

"Course I do!"

Once again, Phyllis reminded herself that it wasn't her responsibility to prevent perfectly sober, unaltered adults from making idiots of themselves.

"Alright then. Give me an hour to get the stencil ready and we'll do it," she agreed.

Thomas' customer was laughing hysterically at something as Thomas began the tricky, and more painful part of the tattoo directly over the top of the shoulder blade. Thomas looked over at her with a grimace and rolled his eyes.

"An hour? I thought we would get it done right away!"

"I can take less time if you want, but it'll look as fuzzy as this photo does."

"Of course he looks fuzzy," the man said slowly, as if speaking to a rather dim child. "He's a dog."

Thomas brayed with laughter. Any other time, Phyllis would find it amusing as well. But right now, she bit her tongue hard enough to draw blood and shoved a release form into the bloke's hands, reminding herself that owning her own shop was her dream and she was living it.

"Pay careful attention here," she said, tapping the paper at the clause that stated he demanded no alteration of his image.

With a smile, he signed, stripped off his shirt and sat down at Phyllis' station. Within fifteen minutes, she was tattooing a horrid photo of a dog onto the bloke's bicep, and he was twitching and grunting every time the needles flew, making it even more difficult.

Nothing if not efficient, Phyllis completed the tattoo before Thomas finished with his customer. After seeing him hastily out of the door and breathing a sigh of relief, she threw on a sweater and informed Thomas that she'd be gone for a while.

"But what if someone comes in?" he objected.

"They can wait or come back, Thomas, same as when I'm the only one here. Which has happened at least three times in the past week."

"Gotta date?"

"Get a life, Thomas."

She left out the back door, pulling on her helmet and climbing on the scooter, wondering what the hell she was doing.

The hospital wasn't hard to find, and Joe's van was in the parking lot. She pulled up by the curb and parked her scooter near the bike rack.

The hospital doors wheezed as they automatically opened. Phyllis watched as several people went in and out, and still hadn't figured out what the hell she was doing.

Maybe she'd just see if there was anything she could do…for his shop. Keep an eye on things or something. Or maybe her initial impression had been right and there wasn't much there except self-righteous priggery. She should just start the scooter back up and get back to the shop before Thomas helped himself to her needles. That would make the most sense.

Even as she tucked her helmet under her arm and felt the puff of circulated, sanitized, hospital air brush her face when the doors opened in front of her, she was thinking about the sensible thing to do. She'd learned the hard way to do the sensible thing, but clearly, she hadn't learned it well.

The lobby was nearly deserted; the directory desk was empty. Phyllis stood near a bank of rather tatty armchairs and realized she had no idea where Mr. Molesley the elder might be. She wasn't even sure she knew his first name.

Shaking her head, she made her way back towards the doors. When she heard her name, she cringed.

"Phyllis?" Joe called again. "Wait…"

She turned around and had to smile as he bustled over with his arms full of a basin, a plastic pitcher, a pot of mums and an overnight bag. He could barely see around them. In an automatic gesture, she reached out to take some of the items.

"Thanks for that," he murmured. "Six days in hospital and Dad's collection rivals the British Museum. Can you help me get it all out to the van?"

She nodded and followed him, a little surprised by how casually he had taken his jailbird neighbor showing up uninvited to the hospital. Joe unlocked the back of the van and began stacking his dad's things carefully among the pots and boxes. After fussing over it a moment, he closed the doors and turned to look at her.

The silence she had dreaded descended when he turned to her with a question in his eyes. He looked tired and disheveled - having seen what he looked like after a night of sleeping in his clothes, she recognized it.

Joe had been too surprised to see her standing rather helplessly in the hospital lobby to wonder over much about why she was there in the first place. After two nights of sleeping on the horribly uncomfortable sofas in the family waiting area, he was a mess and not thinking on his feet. The long conversation he'd had with the potted plant in the waiting room before he realized it was fake was proof of that. He'd had too much coffee, he was jittery, the slam of the van doors had made him jump, and he wanted to just shut his eyes and rest his head on someone's shoulder.

"How…how is your dad, Joe?" she finally asked. It occurred to her that things might have gone terribly south and Joe was removing his father's belongings because he was gone. Without thinking, she reached out and touched his arm. His eyes flickered to her hand and then back to her face.

"He's getting better, actually," Joe replied. "They're kicking him out."

"That's good then." Phyllis smiled and gave his arm a little squeeze before letting go.

"He's not best pleased that he's got to spend a few weeks in a transitional facility - just until his lungs clear up all the way. Then he can go back to his flat."

_Not best pleased_ was an understatement. Joe's ears were still ringing from Dad's stroppy little fit, which had quickly moved from his health to Joe neglecting the business by hovering over him for the last few days. Knowing that Dad had been a very sick man didn't keep Joe from having his feelings hurt.

"Is he still in danger?" she asked, wondering why Joe didn't seem happier.

"Nah," he replied, shaking his head. The movement made him feel a little dizzy. "He's more than well enough to give me a tongue lashing."

Joe tried to smile, but fatigue and resentment were creeping up on him. Phyllis felt an absurd impulse to pat his head again, or hug him. She stepped back, biting her lip. Joe didn't notice.

"Well…"she began, feeling self conscious, "if there's anything I can do…you know, help with the shop, or anything."

"I'll be open again tomorrow, or Dad will want to know the reason why. But thanks."

She nodded. "Best get back to the shop then." As she turned to go, Joe made a noise. She stopped and turned back to look at him.

"Why…why did you come out here tonight?" he asked tentatively, studying the car park pavement intently.

"I wondered how you were, I guess. Wondered if I could help with anything."

He nodded without looking up and she felt a wave of embarrassment.

"Sorry if I shouldn't have," she said, stiffly and quietly.

"No…no…its alright. Really." He looked at her with a hollow, exhausted face. "I was, well, surprised I suppose. But I'm glad to see you. I mean, I'm glad you…Thank you for coming by. I didn't expect…so I'm not, I mean… I don't what I mean."

"Goodnight, Joe," she said with a smile as his disjointed babbling tapered off. She began walking back to her scooter.

"Goodnight, Phyllis."

She waved at him. He watched her start up her scooter and ride away, wishing he'd been more coherent, so that he could have told how much it meant to him that she should have come by. He rested his head against the cool metal of his van and groaned.

* * *

The flower shop was open the next day at the regular time, and there was a steady stream of customers. When Phyllis opened her shop at 11am, she was amused to see Thomas loitering on the sidewalk, hoping to attract the attention of a frantically busy Jimmy without being too obvious.

"Why not just go on in?" she asked him as he lit a second cigarette off of his current one and scowled.

"Why don't _you_ just go on in?" he snapped.

"Because I'm not lusting after one the employees."

"Liar," he muttered. At her glare, he sighed heavily and pouted. "Molesley's either gonna bar me or fire Jimmy if I don't leave him alone during working hours. I don't want that wanker firing Jimmy because of me."

"Jimmy spends a good two to three hours over in our place after the flower shop closes anyway." She was beginning to see him as a over excited Labrador puppy, always underfoot and chewing on things. She'd had to tell him not to touch the piercing gun twice last week and eventually threatened to pierce his nipples with a number six gauge needle.

"Yeah, but I'm working then. We don't get much time to talk."

"Just keep him away from the damn piercing gun," she said, shaking her head.

"Why do you always gotta spoil my fun," Thomas leered. "I had plans for that gun."

"If you tell me a single detail, you're fired."

Thomas laughed and they went inside to begin setting up for the day. There was a steady stream of walk-ins, but not too many appointments. By six, Phyllis was ready for a break, and stepped out the back door for some fresh air.

Joe was packing his van with deliveries and looking harried. But when he looked over at her sitting there, he grinned and left a stack of boxes and potted plants next to the van to walk over.

"You were busy today," she said. "Thomas was frosted that Jimmy didn't come over to eat his lunch and giggle at his sketches."

Joe raised his eyebrows and grunted. "We both ate lunch on the run…" He suddenly looked confused."Wait…'eat his lunch' isn't some sort of euphemism, is it?"

Phyllis threw back her head and laughed. Joe smiled at her sheepishly.

"No? I don't really keep up with that sort of thing anymore."

"Not to my knowledge," she replied, still snickering. "And I can't say that I really keep up with it either, but Thomas is always happy to share his extensive knowledge with me, no matter how much I don't want to know."

Joe swallowed hard and looked sideways at her. "I was too knackered to be polite last night, so I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" she asked pleasantly.

"Not thanking you for taking time to come by."

"You thanked me," she said with a smile. "Repeatedly, actually."

"Did I?" he replied, flushing red. "I just remember babbling incoherently."

"There were a few thank yous in there. I heard them."

"That's good then." Joe twitched and opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, then shut it again.

"What?"

"Umm… last night, you seemed…"

"Seemed what, Joe?" Phyllis asked resignedly. He was clearly uncomfortable about something, but that seemed to be his default position most of the time.

She thought she could guess what was bothering him. A sharp little stab poked the back of her throat when she swallowed. Nothing ever changed, did it?

"You seemed like…like you thought you shouldn't have been there? Maybe?"

"Maybe I shouldn't have been."

"Why not?" he asked in a slightly desperate tone, seemingly finding the rubbish bins fascinating. "It was nice of you…to be concerned. Made me think…"

A sad little smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. Joe didn't finish his comment.

"Think that we're friends?"

He nodded and snuck another glance over at her. Her face was grim, then she gave a little sigh and shook her head.

"For all you know, I could be a violent felon. I didn't think you'd be comfortable with me just showing up. It was a stupid thing to do."

"But you're not!" he protested. "You're not violent, Phyllis."

She looked over at him with an irritated raised eyebrow, wondering why he was being deliberately obtuse. "Joe, how the fuck would you know?"

"I can't even get my mind over the fact that you've been in prison at all," he muttered, looking away. "It just doesn't fit."

"I'm the owner of a tattoo parlor with ink over 70% of my body, one of which is a barcode with my prisoner identification number. How doesn't it fit in your world? Even if I'm Mother bloody Theresa, there's no halo over my head. You were so appalled when I opened the shop, you couldn't even look at the front without stomping your little feeties." She found the combination of hurt and guilt on his face to be a little painful. "I'm not a nice person," she muttered.

"_Are_ you a violent felon?" he asked suddenly.

She half expected him to start inching away. When he didn't and he even looked her in the eye, she began to think she'd misjudged him again. She stood up, wanting to draw this conversation to a close.

"I was sent down for felony theft and possession of drugs with intention to distribute," she replied, almost mechanically, as if she was taking to her solicitor again. "A drug deal went very bad. I was the bag holder and I stole a car and me and three others drove off with all the smack sitting in a fucking school bag in my lap. We were nicked before we even got out of York. I was sentenced to five years; I served slightly over three."

His mouth hadn't fallen open in shock, which surprised her. Nor had he begun backing away. It bothered her that his expression was so cloaked, she couldn't get a read on what he was thinking. It made her nervous and she gripped the handle of the back door firmly.

"I didn't serve time as a violent felon. I hate violence. But that doesn't change anything."

"That can't be the whole story," he said quietly, staring at the stoop. "It can't."

"That is the whole bloody story, Joe," she responded angrily, her voice rising. "I'm not a good person. I broke the law. I paid for it with three years in a wretched, spirit sucking place with other wretched people."

His eyes widened with concern, and he opened his mouth to interject. She went on before he could speak.

"I don't know what you want to find in me, Joe, but it isn't bloody there. _This_ is what is," she said, waving her hand at the tattoos on her arm. "This is who I am and how I'm strong." Her voice caught on the last word, and she hated herself for it.

His face crumpled into a sad grimace. She waited for him to say something trite or to try to buck her up somehow. But he just stood there looking like he was on the verge of tears.

"I'm not that person anymore," she said more gently, "but _nothing_ can change the past. It took me long enough to realize that." She sighed and tried to smile at him. "I'm concerned with the future now. This shop is my future and I need to get back to work."

"Alright," he said softly. "Sorry to have kept you."

He watched as she went back inside without another word. His stomach burned and he longed for the cool indifference of a potted plant to pour his heart out to.

Phyllis shut the door behind her and leaned against it, letting her eyes close and her mouth quiver before schooling her features into her usual, professional expression.

"That you, Boss?" Thomas called from the front of the shop. "Took you long enough!"

She took a breath to ensure that her voice didn't quaver.

"Who else would it be? You better not have been poking around my needles!"

"Your needles aren't what I like to poke around with!" he hollered back, bringing a grin to her face. She did really like Thomas…some of the time.

Joe went back to his van, tossed the rest of his boxes into it carelessly, and arranged the plants so they would stay upright.

"What gave me the right to badger her like that?" he asked a Boston Fern. The Boston Fern flopped lazily over its pot.

He started up the van, but couldn't bring himself to back out. Leaving the van running, he suddenly went back into the shop and came out with a budded rose.

When Phyllis wearily emerged from her shop at 1am, she saw the rose sitting on the seat of her scooter. Rolling her eyes, she contemplated tossing it on the ground, sending him a clear message. It would be best for him.

She wondered why she didn't, even as she lifted it to her nose, then carefully placed it in her messenger bag.

* * *

She hadn't mentioned the rose when he dropped by the shop on Thursday evening and neither did he. With no appointments on her calendar, she was working on several commissioned tattoos and wasn't best pleased to hear the knock at the front door.

"Appointment only on Thursday!" she hollered. There was another knock and she tossed her graphite aside angrily. "Oi, you sterling product of the British educational system! Read the bloody sign!" When there was another knock, she looked around in disbelief.

"Oh, bloody hell," she muttered, as Joe waved tentatively through the glass. "I should have pulled the door shade."

Sighing, she walked over to door and unlocked it for him. He smiled gratefully and came in. Shutting the door behind him, she locked it and pulled the shade for good measure.

"Do you have an appointment?" she demanded sarcastically.

"Um, no…but I'd like to talk to you about one," he replied tentatively.

"You need to call the shop, then," she said, shaking her head.

"I'm sorry," he said, twisting his hands like he was holding a cap. "I shouldn't have presumed you could see me today." Giving her a stiff nod, he waked towards the door with his eyes on the floor.

"It's locked!" she yelled, before he could walk into it again. He stopped in his tracks and closed his eyes in embarrassment. "Oh, for the love of…just come in, Joe. Sit down and we can talk. But I'm going to keep working while we do."

"That's fine," he said eagerly, coming to sit on a high stool next to the counter and watching her as she turned back to her easel and picked up her graphite again. For a few minutes, he didn't say anything. He just watched as lines converged and separated under her pencil, an the outline of an image slowly appeared. Her forehead crinkled in concentration and she chewed her lip unconsciously. He found himself watching her lip more than her fingers,

"Well?" she finally asked, not stopping her work. "What's happened in the last few weeks that have made such an impact on you that you think a tattoo is what you need right now?"

"Um…" he startled. Hoping she wasn't angry at him, he began to marshall his thoughts.

"It's Dad, you see…"

She looked quickly at him, then back at her work.

"As he's been so sick, I've spent a lot of time with him. And we've talked a lot." He smiled to himself, remembering some of Dad's monologues, which nearly always started: _Lad, have I told you…?_ Fifty years old, and he's still _Lad_ to him.

"Anyway, he told me he'd known for a while that I wasn't happy. And he's right. I was just going through the motions, like. It wasn't the plants…I love the plants. I've always loved the plants. And it wasn't the customers…most of them. I just…didn't seem to have any patience for them - didn't care if they liked what I did. There just wasn't any joy, see?"

Phyllis nodded and continued to sketch, but all her attention was on Joe. She'd heard him angry, drunk, apologetic, embarrassed, exhausted and amused. But she'd not heard this quality of voice from him before. It was strong, but quiet. It suited him.

"Dad reminded me that he and Grandad were the first florists in Yorkshire to feature hothouse flowers. Did you know that?" Phyllis shook her head. "Dad always dreamed of going to South America, I guess, and almost left home to do that. Grandad talked him into bringing South America here. Not only would he be content, but everyone in Downton would love them. Beautiful, exotic life from foreign lands sitting in their very own parlors and drawing rooms…" His voice trailed off, and Phyllis looked over to see a happy, proud smile on his face, like nothing she'd seen before.

"Anyway…" he continued, blushing a little at his enthusiasm, "it got me thinking that there's more to me than just selling flowers and plants." He looked at her pleadingly, as if begging her to understand him. "I'm from a family who brought South America here to Yorkshire because it was a kind of magic that only they could bring. Do you understand?"

"I think so," she said softly, her sketch set aside and her eyes on Joe.

"I don't want to forget that's a part of me, Phyllis. I want to wake up everyday and wonder what sort of magic I'm going to bring to Yorkshire today! And even if I don't, I'll be looking for it. Can you do me a tattoo that will make me remember?"

Joe took a deep breath, wondering if he'd been babbling again, hoping he'd made some sense to her. She looked at him, something appraising and approving in her eyes that he'd not seen before. Then she nodded.

"I can do that, Joe."

"What would it look like?" he asked eagerly even as he cast a trepidatious eye towards her tattoo machine.

Phyllis smiled and reached out to grasp his chin, turning his eyes back to her. They were wide and a little frightened.

"You already know, Joe. You've told me. The question is…where do you want it?"

"Ummm…well I've never had a tattoo before…"

"What a shock," she said dryly.

He grimaced good naturedly at her, then glanced over at the tattoo machine again.

"Umm…what hurts the least?" he asked in a low voice.

"Someplace with flesh," she answered promptly, as if his question wasn't at all untoward. "The closer you get to prominent bones, the more painful it tends to be. But everyone is different, Joe." She tipped her head to the side and looked him over, then grinned.

"Take off your shirt," she ordered.

"What?"

"Take off your shirt. Go on…strip off. Let me see your chest."

"You want me to take my shirt off?" he asked in amazement.

"Yes, you idiot," she repeated, shaking her head and smiling. "Take it off." When he stood, staring at her as if she'd ordered him to fly to Cuba by flapping his arms, she rolled her eyes. "You've got nothing I haven't seen before."

"That really doesn't make me feel better," he mumbled as his fingers fumbled at his buttons. She snorted in laughter. "What's the strangest place you've ever tattooed someone?" he asked, expecting an anecdote about flabby buttocks or something of the like.

"I tattooed the AC/DC band logo on a bloke's scrotum once," she said casually. "That took the biscuit."

His mouth dropped open in shock and the noise he made was barely human. She laughed as his hand twisted in the fabric of his shirt and he seemed to shrink up protectively.

"You're joking me?" he squeaked. "Oh my God…how did you…how did he…"

"So your pectoral shouldn't be too difficult at all, right?"

"Seriously? His… really?"

She nodded. "Are you ever going to get that shirt off, Joe?"

Still shuddering every time he pictured the AC/DC fan, he stripped off his shirt and shivered as the cool air of the shop hit his chest. He shivered again as Phyllis began examining him closely. Swallowing hard, he stared at the wall of the shop.

"How about here, Joe?" she asked, touching him lightly just over his left nipple. He looked down to see her finger tracing a path through his chest hair. "Can you see it clearly enough?"

He nodded and hoped she couldn't feel how fast his heart was beating. It had been a very long time since a woman had touched his bare chest. He hadn't counted on this when he determined to get a tattoo.

"That'll do nicely, then," she said, removing her finger and stepping back. "If you're happy with it?"

"I think so…yes," he stammered. A flash of fear crossed his face, and he wondered if he'd lost his mind.

"I'll do up a few sketches, then," she said. "We can go over them and you can schedule the tat whenever you're ready."

"Could I schedule for a time when Thomas isn't here?" he blurted. The last thing he wanted was to wimp out with his sneering face looming over everything.

"Of course," she said with an understanding look. "But you needn't worry, Joe." She looked him in the eye. "You're strong enough for this."

He opened his mouth to say that he hoped so, but the look in her eyes was confident, and he believed her.

"Thanks," he said instead.

She had sketches for him by the following Tuesday. As she took them out of the file folder to show him, his eyes were filled with the vibrant splashes of color in watercolor style that exploded from the simple outline of an orchid - oranges, pinks, yellows and greens. His sucked in an audible breath.

She looked at him uncertainly. "Joe? What do you think of these?" When he remained silent, his eyes glued to the examples, she hastened to assure him. "I can do something different if you prefer…"

"No! No, please don't," he exclaimed. He lifted his eyes from the paper and she could see the wonder shining in them. "They're….they're just what I want."

She smiled with relief. Until that moment, she hadn't realized how much she wanted to get this right for him.

"We can do it Thursday?" he asked excitedly.

"Of course."

"I'll see you then," he promised, spontaneously grabbing her hand and squeezing it.

Phyllis squeezed back, then removed her hand gently from his. "I'll need this in good working order Thursday," she said gently, flexing her fingers.

He snatched his own hand back and thrust it into his pocket, afraid it would do something incorrect of its own volition. With a muttered apology, and a last, long look at her sketches, he left, only looking back once.

Her hand tingled as she watched him go. Thomas, who had been watching everything curiously, sidled up next to her and looked over the sketches. He let out a low whistle.

"Amazing," he said softly. She turned to look at him in surprise, not aware that he was there. "So, he's really going to do this?"

"Yes," she confirmed. At Thomas' doubting look, she raised an eyebrow. "He's far stronger than he looks, Thomas. More so than I ever gave him credit for."

"If you say so," he drawled suggestively. When she didn't rise to his bait, he shrugged and began to move off.

"Thomas," she said suddenly, "can you handle opening tomorrow?"

"I suppose…why?"

"I've got some business to take care of in York."

"Court business?" he asked warily.

"Long overdue business," she replied, looking into his concerned eyes.

"Are you sure, Phyllis? It's been this long…"

"I'm positive." She looked out of the window of her shop, her mouth set in a grim, determined line. "I've never been so sure."

**A/N: They lead fairly dramatic lives for small business owners in the Yorkshire countryside. Let me know what you think of it all.**


	6. The Beginning

The Beginning

She'd been nervous, leaving Thomas in charge for as long as her trip to York took. But she returned to find he'd scheduled several customers for later consultations or appointments, and finished a rather extensive back tattoo project. She was even in time to hear how pleased the bloke was with the Death Star that now covered from the bottom of his shoulder blades to the top of his pants. Of course, Thomas had cranked the music up again, but she let that pass, seeing as how he'd done so well _and_ managed to avoid a visit from the local constabulary.

"Did Joe drop by while I was gone?" she asked after turning down the music a bit.

Thomas scowled at that and shook his head at her question.

"Really? Not at all?" she asked. "That's a bit surprising."

"Either he's not worried, or he's too worried to set foot in the place," Thomas said dismissively. "Probably the last bit."

Phyllis didn't enlighten him that there might be a reason other than just the impending tattoo that Joe might stop in. But she was grateful that he hadn't. There likely wouldn't be any need to make up something about her trip to York.

"Everything go well?" Thomas asked. She fiddled with the straps to her messenger bag and shrugged.

"As well as can be expected."

"Phyllis…" he began, cutting off as she shook her head at him.

"I don't want to chat about it, Thomas, alright?"

He said nothing, but she could feel his eyes on her as she walked to the back. She shut the door to her office and sat at her desk, holding her messenger bag in her lap. Her heart was beating so fast that she felt dizzy.

With a glance at her door, she reached into the bottom drawer of her desk and pulled out a bottle of cheap scotch. After a quick glance at the mugs next to the coffee maker, she took a pull straight from the neck of the bottle. One was all she'd allow herself, but it helped melt the block of ice that had settled on her chest the moment she'd signed the divorce papers with her name and the address of the flat in Thirsk.

The smiling assurances of the solicitor did nothing for her. They were unable to override the voices she had always associated with the British legal system; the ones that dripped with disdain or echoed with indifference:

_That's what this lot is like… I dunno what she expected… _

She pulled a ream of papers from her messenger bag and tried not to look at them as she searched fruitlessly for a file folder. Unable to turn one up, she angrily jammed the copies into her file drawer, crumpling them, and slammed the drawer, sweat beading on her brow. She started to replace the bottle back into the lowest drawer, but stopped and shut her eyes.

"Yeah. It can't stay here," she whispered.

Stealthily, she crept into the bathroom across from her office and poured it down the sink drain. Popping a breath mint into her mouth, she returned to the front of the store, ready to get to work.

She'd never worked impaired, and she had no intention of starting now. The oblivion she craved so badly would have to wait until after closing.

* * *

The love seat in her office grew more uncomfortable every time she slept on it. Muttering angrily to herself, Phyllis splashed water on her face in the bathroom and tried to do something with her hair before giving up and pulling it back in a messy ponytail.

She was later than she thought, and felt a bit desperate to get out and ride back to her flat in Thirsk for a shower and fresh clothes before Thomas showed up to get ready for his appointment.

Or before Joe showed up. She could hear noises coming from the flower shop through the wall of her office. It sounded like a muffled conversation, but she couldn't imagine who he was talking to.

As she was preparing to head out the back door, it opened in her face. Thomas stood in surprise on the stoop and stared at her.

"Bloody hell, Phyllis. Did you you sleep here last night?"

"Yeah…I worked too late and didn't want to risk the scooter when I was so tired," she replied, not meeting his eyes. "You're the early bird this morning."

"Yeah…my bloke changed his mind and wanted to go before lunch." He looked her over carefully and remembered how the bathroom had smelled vaguely of scotch yesterday afternoon.

"I'm fine, Thomas," she said. "I didn't get wasted last night; I didn't do anything stupid. I just…didn't feel like going back to the flat is all."

"You haven't done anything 'stupid' in years," he replied. "It might do you some good if you did. Why don't you put Molesley off? He's your only appointment today. Go somewhere and get wrecked. You can crash at my flat, if you want."

"No," she said quickly. "I don't want to do that to him. This is a big thing for him, Thomas."

"Yeah? Maybe its a big thing for you too?"

Phyllis sighed wearily. "I'm going home, Thomas. I'll be back before you're done with your customer."

Thomas shifted aside and watched her walk to her scooter. As she took her hair down and got on the scooter, the back door of the flower shop opened and Jimmy walked out with several bags of rubbish. He waved to Phyllis who returned the gesture, and went back inside.

"That's Miss Baxter off," he said as he went past Joe who was working in the back room.

"What? Really?" He hurried over to the back door in time to see Phyllis ride away down the alley. "Damn."

Joe turned back to Jimmy, who was looking at the pieces of the arrangement with interest. Something clicked in his head at Jimmy's expression.

"Jimmy, how would you like to take a stab at this order?"

"Really? Could I, Mr. Molesley?"

"Why not? You're good for more than just sweeping up and making hospital bouquets. Go ahead and put together the order, then I'll look it over." Jimmy nodded eagerly. "I'll get the bell if it goes. You just concentrate on this."

Joe went to his office and ran his fingers through the soil in the Ficus' pot. "Sorry about that over-watering thing," he apologized. "I know I haven't been myself lately…" The Ficus wouldn't meet his eyes.

He stood and looked at the degree hanging askew on his wall. Reaching out, he straightened it and stepped back to see the effect.

"I was going to be a teacher once," he informed the Ficus. "Did I ever mention that? I was going to get my doctorate, research fascinating gymnosperms, and teach young botanists the magic of how everything fits together. And when my first research proposal to the committee was rejected, I never went back for another shot. I came back here, and I haven't taught anybody anything." He looked at the slightly less indifferent Ficus. "Maybe I still can."

"Mr. Molesley?" Jimmy appeared in his doorway half an hour later. "I've finished, I think."

"Let's have a look then."

They went to the work bench and Joe studied the arrangement carefully. Nothing had been left out, and if the arrangement was very straightforward, at least it wasn't as heavy handed as Jimmy's work tended to be.

"That's pretty good," he affirmed, making Jimmy beam. "Let me ask you something, though… do you know who it's for and who it's from?"

"Um….yeah. It's for Mrs. Rossingill and its from the…" he squinted at the order, "RSPCA."

"What do we know about Mrs. Rossingill?"

"She's got cats all over the bloody place," Jimmy immediately replied with a grin. "Only she's not wacky like some."

"Right," Joe said with an amused eye roll. "She rescues and fosters cats. The flowers are a thank you for the work she does. How many cats does she usually have?"

"Several hundred, it looks like."

"Not quite. But she's always got at least eight or so." Joe reached out a finger and flicked the Amaranthus spray. "Now…the arrangement calls for these, but how long do you think this display will last in a house with eight cats?"

Jimmy's eyes got wide as he considered. "About five minutes, if she's lucky," he replied. "I never would've thought about that."

"Right. So what might we put in that will complement the arrangement, but won't tempt the moggies quite as much?"

Jimmy scrunched up his forehead and grimaced, as if thought was painful, then he suddenly grinned.

"What about pussy willow stems? A few of them arranged at the back, sort of up over the others?"

"Try it and see," Joe replied with a nod. He grinned at Jimmy's enthusiasm as he stripped the dangling spray from the arrangement and went back to his office.

* * *

Thomas stopped work on his customer and moved to get the phone before Phyllis could. She watched in amusement as he leapt for the phone after seeing the caller ID.

"What's up, sexy beast," he growled.

"That's simultaneously the most absurdly flattering yet oddly disturbing thing you've ever said to me, Thomas."

As Joe's voice rang clearly through the phone, Thomas turned red and jerked his head back.

"Bloody fucking hell!" he swore, thrusting the phone at Phyllis, who was doubled over in laughter. "It's Molesley." He stomped back to his grinning customer.

"Wrong number?" the man asked.

"Wrongest number in the whole, bloody history of hooking up," Thomas replied, watching Phyllis try to talk into the phone while still laughing. "For me, anyway."

"Does he always answer the phone that way?" Joe asked, enjoying the sound of Phyllis' laughter over the line.

"God, I hope not," she said, gasping for breath and trying not to break into giggles again. "You're not calling to cancel your tattoo appointment are you, sexy beast?"

"As nicknames go, I've had worse," Joe replied dryly, making Phyllis start laughing again. "And I'm not. Canceling, I mean. I'm not canceling. I might be a sexy beast, though…"

Phyllis broke out laughing again even harder as Joe tried to sound flirtatious. Thomas glared at her.

"I'm wondering if I can give you dinner, before the appointment," he went on, suddenly sounding nervous. "I still owe you."

"You don't owe me anything, Joe," she replied, moving away from Thomas and his customer to have a little more privacy, "but alright. I guess we can eat first. Grantham Arms?"

"I'm barred," he reminded her.

"I'll bet John will lift it if you ask," she replied. "I'll vouch for your reformed character."

"Thanks for that. My shop closes at half past five, so I'll see you then?"

"See you then."

She hung-up the phone and stood holding it while staring out the front window, wondering if she'd just agreed to go on a date with Joe Molesley. If the triumphant look in Thomas' eyes was any indication, she very likely had. For the first time in 24 hours, she didn't spare a thought for the divorce papers crumpled up in her file drawer, copies of which should be delivered to her husband's cell at the next mail call.

* * *

Joe stood awkwardly at the door of the Grantham Arms, almost peeking in as John greeted Phyllis.

"You're in early for a change," he said. Catching sight of Joe, he raised a stern eyebrow.

"Erm…I was hoping to talk to you, John," Joe stammered. John didn't smile in a welcoming manner, but his eyes twinkled a bit.

"Oh, go on… talk to him, John," Anna Bates urged, winking at Joe. John shared a glance with his wife, then waved Joe in.

"I won't have a repeat of the last time you were here, Joe," he warned him.

"You won't have it," Joe assured him. "I've learned my lesson." He beamed as Anna showed him and Phyllis to a table. John followed them with his eyes, a little smile quirking the corner of his mouth.

"I'll just bet you have," he muttered as he watched Joe watch Phyllis while Anna told them it was Shepherd's Pie for the special tonight.

"Sounds perfect, Anna. I'll have that and a glass of red."

"Same, but a pint, please." Joe looked at Phyllis, suddenly doubtful. "I can have one, can't I?"

"As long as you're not impaired, it's fine," she assured him.

Anna looked at them both strangely and walked back to the bar to give John their orders.

"What is it, " he asked as he pulled pints for two men at the bar.

"I've just heard the oddest thing," she said in a low voice, looking back over at Joe and Phyllis. At his questioning look, she shook her head. "I don't know…either Joe is getting a tattoo tonight, or they're planning on shagging like rabbits."

John fumbled one of the glasses and spilled beer down the back side of the bar. Anna giggled as he grimaced and swore under his breath.

"Can't it be a both-and thing?" he asked as he swiped vigorously at the mess.

"I can't wrap my head around either," she said, giggling harder.

"Well, you'd know best," he teased. She slapped his arm.

"Stop that," she ordered with a smile.

Joe was explaining to Phyllis that the Grantham Arms had won an award for several of their food specials, thanks to a local girl named Daisy Mason who had a real gift.

"Really? I thought Anna did the cooking," Phyllis commented, watching the byplay between the Bateses at the bar with a little smile.

"She does some, but Daisy does most of it. Anna doesn't really like cooking all that much."

"You've known her a while then?"

"Most of my life," Joe replied. "I was in upper school when she was in lower school. I, um…"

"What?"

Joe flushed red, wishing he hadn't kept talking. "Um…well, I was keen on her once…" He stole a look at Phyllis and flushed deeper at her amusement.

"What happened? Did you ask her out?"

"I _tried_," he answered. "She'd already met John, though, and even though they were going through a rough patch - John had left her, actually; something to do with his ex - she was quite nice when she told me I didn't have a chance. I'd missed it, like I usually do."

Phyllis watched him pout a little and rolled her eyes. "You have no idea how lucky you are, do you…"

"Yeah, yeah… I know. I got a _business on a bloody silver platter_ and all that—"

"It's not just that," Phyllis interrupted, leaning forward as she spoke earnestly. "It's everything, Joe. You grew up here. You've always been surrounded by people who know you and looked out for you, and now they respect you. Did you always think you'd go to university?"

"I suppose…" he said hesitantly. "I was a good student…"

"I wasn't a bad student, Joe. At least, not for most of school. But I left at sixteen, because the local consolidated was just a warehouse for us council block delinquents, to keep us off the street. No one ever thought we'd go to uni."

His head was tipped to one side as he listened. She was going to stop there, but something in his expression made her want go on, to make him _understand_.

"Did you get in trouble much when you were a kid, Joe?" He shook his head. "We all got in trouble. Everyone I grew up with had young offenders records. No one ever said, it's just kids being kids. Gran raised me, because Mum did a bunk and who the fuck knows who Dad was. But she wasn't happy about it. I haven't had any contact with her since I got arrested. Why'd you spend hours at your dad's bedside when he was sick, Joe?"

"Well…that's just what you do, isn't it?" he sputtered.

"That's what your lot do, Joe. That's what _I'd_ do if there was anyone I cared about like you care about your dad. But my lot…when no one thinks you care, you wind up not caring. You know? People can live down to your expectations, but you've always lived up. Right?"

Joe nodded, although he didn't think he'd always lived up to the expectations of him. He was about to reply when Anna brought their order over.

"Here you are," she said brightly.

They thanked Anna and waited for her to move away. Joe watched Phyllis take a swallow of wine and cut into the pie.

"You came to see me while Dad was in hospital," he said suddenly.

"Yeah… so? Better eat up, Joe. You've got an appointment."

"Whose expectations were those?" he asked.

"Mine," she replied after a moment's silence. "The thing is, Joe, what you've got, some people would give everything to have. People believe you when say something. Nobody accuses you of things just because you're you. When somebody hur—"

He looked up as she broke off and took another bite, chewing deliberately. She met his eyes, then looked down at her food.

"When somebody hurts you?" he asked. "Is that what you were going to say?"

She didn't answer but poked her fork at his untouched plate impatiently. He obligingly picked up his own fork and began eating, hardly tasting the food.

"I'm not used to feeling lucky," he said, breaking the uncomfortable silence that was forming.

"Well, you are," she replied, smiling in relief that he seemed to be willing to let her near slip pass without further detail.

"Alright," he said, smiling back. "You're right. I'm luckier than I know."

When Anna brought their bills, Joe took both. She gave him a knowing smile as Phyllis started to argue.

"Joe, I can pay for my own," she said, reaching for it.

"I've got it," he insisted. "Dinner's my treat." At her exasperated look, he grinned and dug into his pocket for his wallet. "C'mon…it gives me the feeling that I'm out on a proper date."

"This isn't a proper date?" she heard herself say teasingly.

"It is if you let me pay for it."

"Fine. You're the sexy beast; pay for it if you like."

Joe flushed red to the tips of his ears and pretended that Anna wasn't standing five feet away and likely heard every word.

Anna very nearly dropped the tray she was carrying and hurried back to the kitchen with her face contorted to hold in the giggles that threatened to erupt.

He went over to the bar and tossed some notes on it. Then he looked back at Phyllis, who was watching him with a smile, and paid no attention to John who was patiently standing with his change .

"Joe," he finally said, grinning when Joe turned abruptly to look at him with glazed eyes.

"Oh… right," he said with a foolish smile. "Sorry, John."

"How was your dinner?"

"What? Dinner?"

"Never mind, Joe."

Anna came over to John as he watched Phyllis and Joe leave and whispered in his ear. His peal of laughter followed them out of the pub.

* * *

Joe's eyes followed her every move as she took off her over-shirt and prepared her station for his tattoo. He'd hopped up onto her table when she'd patted it in invitation, and was trying to relax. When he found his legs kicking like a little kid's, he didn't know if was nerves or excitement, but he lightly pounded his thigh with his fist when he thought Phyllis wasn't looking.

"You know, Joe," she said with her back to him as she loaded her black ink, "you don't have anything to prove."

"What…what do you mean?"

"You don't have to do this now, or even at all." She turned her head to look at him. "No pressure from me, Joe."

"I know," he said quietly. "I'm not feeling pressured at all."

"Alright then," she replied, pulling on a pair of gloves. "Take off your shirt…"

He began unbuttoning and pulled his arms out, puffing up his chest slightly.

"…sexy beast," she finished with a laugh.

He snorted. "Now I _am_ feeling pressured."

She smiled, knowing she had dispelled some of his anxiety, and began cleaning his chest with antiseptic, making him shiver as the chilly liquid evaporated into the air. As her gloved fingers ran the towelette over his chest, she also shivered a bit.

Joe stared at the top of her head and side of her face as she followed the path of her hand, making sure she had cleansed the whole area. He was captivated by the contrast between her brow wrinkled in concentration and the little smile curling at the corner of her mouth. So captivated, that when she made a little sound of satisfaction and sat back, he was caught out.

He certainly didn't look anxious. She wasn't sure how to define the way he was looking at her. It made her uncomfortable, but not in the way she had felt before, when a customer's eyes would crawl all over her. That she could handle by being professional and dismissive - shutting him down and concentrating on the business at hand, leaving him to whatever fantasies were playing out in his head. If he so much as touched her though, the tattoo was over and she'd make certain he wasn't pleased with it.

It never ceased to amaze her how stupid people could be, trying to harass someone with a tool full of needles and ink.

Joe made her uncomfortable by the openness of his gaze. And by the way her stomach fluttered when she saw she was the recipient of it.

"We'll do a test run, Joe," she said, after clearing her throat. "I'll start with a small area, and we'll see how you feel about it."

He tilted his head down as far as he could to try to watch. She sighed and indicated that he should look up. When he looked at her in confusion, she rolled her eyes and pressed against his shoulders then tipped his head up with her finger under his chin.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly. "I just um…"

"You wanted to see what I was doing…I know," she replied. "You'll get to see if you want." She gestured at a mirror hanging on the wall next to her station. "Watch there, if you like. But sit up straight and try not to move, alright?"

He nodded and tried to smile. At his nervous grimace, she tried to smile reassuringly while she prayed he wouldn't turn out to be one of those who simply couldn't deal with the pain.

As she flicked on the machine and laid it against his skin, his eyes flew open at the stabbing burn, but he didn't twitch away. Phyllis drew a short line, flicking her eyes to his face to judge his reaction.

"Alright, Joe?"

"Yeah. So far, so good."

Phyllis continued, the needles flying as she freehand sketched the outline of the orchid over his left pectoral. As she rested the heel of her gloved hand against his chest, she could feel his heart hammering beneath it. He twitched as she curved the line near his nipple and she took a moment to wipe down the area and check to see how he was doing.

"Alright, Joe?" she asked, taking in his bitten lip. "Not too much?"

"Noooo…not really. I was just…" He stole a look at her face. "I was just expecting to get used to it. You know…the burning. But I'm not. It, um, seems to get worse sometimes, then better."

"Yeah…that's not unusual," she assured him. "Every patch of your skin is different thickness and has different nerves in it. So sometimes you'll feel it less in one spot than in others."

"Makes sense," he said, taking a deep breath. "You can go on."

She smiled at him and was happy to see the grim, determined look on his face relax as he smiled back.

"Which of your tattoos hurt the most?" he asked as she continued. She thought for a moment.

"Well, I've got some on my feet that were a bit painful…"

"Your feet?" he asked, his voice rising. "You have tattoos on your feet?"

"A few," she said, deciding not to mention that she had done most of them herself. "I guess the one that hurt the most was the one that took the longest. The one on my back goes from my neck to the base of my spine."

He was silent and she glanced over at the mirror to see him looking amazed and curious. His eyes flickered from hers in the reflection, and she knew he wanted to ask. They all wanted to ask.

"Do you want to see it?" she said, trying for a casual tone. It had been a very long time since someone had seen that whole tattoo. She wasn't at all sure why she was offering to show it to him.

"What? Your back, you mean?" He jumped a little at her question, which was the answer to the question he hadn't dared to ask. Joe felt his mouth go dry at the image of Phyllis removing her tank top and showing him the rest of what he could see curling around the edge of her neck.

"Yeah. Let me finish the outline, then you can have a break while I change out the ink." She looked at him in the mirror again, catching his nod and marking the trepidation in his eyes. Biting her lip, she bent to his chest to finish the outline.

Twenty minutes later, she wiped his chest down one last time, then sat back and stripped off her gloves. Joe was staring, fascinated, at the unfinished tattoo on his chest.

"I can't believe it," he said softly. "I can't believe I'm doing this." He looked up at her. "It may be the most out of character thing I've ever done."

"Are you sorry?"

"No! I'm not sorry at all. I don't know if I'll ever get another one…"

"Maybe one is all you need, Joe. How are you feeling?"

"Pretty good," he said in a voice tinged with surprise. "Better than I thought I would."

"I'm glad," she said warmly.

"I don't suppose its that big a deal, compared to all the tattoos you've done before," he muttered, suddenly feeling a little silly about the fuss he was making over a half finished tattoo.

"You don't need to compare it to the tattoos I've done before," she replied. "If it's a big deal to you, it's a big deal to me."

"You love doing this, don't you," he commented suddenly. "It's like…this was what you were meant to do?"

She stopped puttering with her equipment and looked at him in surprise. "I suppose it is," she said slowly. "It's always been more than a way to make a decent living."

"Could you always draw, or did you take classes to learn?"

"You're a bit nosy," she teased. "Did you always know about plants, or did you learn about them in school."

"Bit of both," he admitted. "I always knew a _lot_ about them."

"Same here. I always love to draw, but I had to learn how to use skin and a person as a canvas. It's a bit different."

"Did you design all your tattoos?"

"Most of them. I'd sketch them out and work with the artist to refine them - get them just how I wanted it." She turned to face away from him and pulled her tank top off over her head. "Like this," she said as her tattoo was revealed. "I designed it and worked with one of the best artists in Northern England. He was the one I'd apprenticed with."

Joe sucked in a breath, not just at her action, but also at the picture in front of him. A curving dragon, every scale detailed in brilliant greens, reds and golds, looking as if they would come off on his fingers if he touched the surface of her back. The eyes glittered with dangerous malice and the fangs dripped with rivulets of flame. Unable to say a word, he watched as she unfastened her bra, shifting the band out of the way so his view was unobscured.

"That's incredible," he whispered without knowing he was saying anything. His eyes followed from the tip of the tail twisting over her shoulder to the nape of her neck, down the sinuous body as it dipped slightly below the waistband of her jeans. The arms were spread across her back, as if clinging to her. And the claws…

He leaned forward suddenly, close enough for his breath to touch her skin. Her eyes widened as he gently ran his finger along the long, deep scars that had been incorporated into the claws of the dragon. She tried to say something, to bark at him and make him back away, but no sound came out of her mouth.

Instead, she took an abrupt step away from him. He snatched his finger back as if burned and looked fearfully at her.

"I'm sorry—"

Phyllis found her voice. "Don't. Just…don't." Not looking at him, she reattached her bra and fumbled for her shirt.

"Is that where he hurt you?" he asked with an edge in his voice that he was surprised to recognize as anger.

"Among other places," she said, still not looking at him as she pulled her tank top back on.

He watched as the shirt fell down to cover not just the dragon, but the flames that licked up her sides to just under her bra, the hummingbird on the slope of her right breast, and the complicated mandala that covered her stomach…

"Phyllis—"

"If I didn't want to talk about it at dinner, Joe, why the bloody hell do you think I'd want to talk about it now?"

He stood with his arms to his side, wanting desperately to see her tattoos more closely, to run his fingers over the edges of the designs and find all the places where she had been hurt. And his chest hurt with the sudden need to find out who had hurt her and to prove to her that it would never happen again.

If there had been a convenient plant to share his thoughts with, he'd have laughed bitterly at himself. For the life of him, he couldn't see how he could share them with her.

"I'll be right back," she said as she moved off towards the loo. "Sit down and we'll finish the tattoo in a minute."

Joe jumped and winced as she slammed the door behind her. He sat back down at her station and stared dismally at the mirror on the wall.

"Well done, you," he told his reflection. "Salt the earth before you even plant a seed. Failure is much more efficient the way you go about it."

He didn't turn when he heard the door open, hoping to put off seeing the anger in Phyllis' eyes a little longer.

"Alright," she said calmly as she made her way back to her station. "You ready to go again?"

"Yeah, sure. Is the next bit better or worse than the outline?"

"Depends," she said with a little smile. "You'll have to tell me what you think."

She gloved back up and cleaned his chest again. Joe watched in the mirror as she began the first burst of color, trying not to twitch away. She worked in silence for a few minutes, then stopped to wipe down his skin.

"I don't want to talk about it, Joe," she said conversationally, "but don't take it personally."

"I won't," he said quickly. "I mean, I don't. I'm sorry…really. It was none of my business…"

"No, but you asked anyway," she said, shaking her head as she began again.

"I shouldn't have. I don't know what I was thinking."

"Joe—"

"I know you don't trust me. I've not given you any reason to - maybe even the opposite." He bit his lip and grunted as she made a sweep over a new area. "But I'm on your side, Phyllis."

"Do you need a minute?" she asked.

He shook his head. She looked at him doubtfully, then shrugged and began again.

"You don't know anything about the sides, Joe," she said after a few minutes. She felt him exhale under her hand.

"I don't think I care," he replied in a thoughtful tone. "I'm on your side. And if I can quit being stupid, maybe you'll believe me someday."

Phyllis kept working, watching the burst of orange blossom on his chest. When she stopped to wipe the area down again, she looked him in the eye.

"You're not stupid, Joe. I'll admit, I thought you were at first…"

"Who could blame you?" he muttered.

"You don't always say the right thing at the right time, but you're not stupid. You're kind, even if you pretend you're not sometimes."

"I'm not always kind."

"Shut up, Joe. You're kinder than most. Ready to go again?"

"Yeah." He watched as she changed out the ink, trying to ignore the throbbing on his chest and wondering how much more there was to do.

"It might get a little more tender now," she warned him before starting up again.

"More tender?" he squeaked.

"You're doing great, Joe," she said soothingly. As he gripped the edge of the table, she found herself assessing what she'd done so far and what she'd need to do if he couldn't take it anymore. "We can take a break anytime you need."

"I'm fine," he replied in a strangled voice.

He watched what he could see of her face instead of the mirror, hoping that might make it go a little better. It still hurt like hell, but he allowed himself to get distracted by the little half smile she wore while she worked and the sweeping beauty of her high cheekbones. Her hair fell forward a bit, and his eyes followed the line of it down her jaw and neck.

"Alright, Joe?" she said, stopping and wiping his chest down. "We're on to the next color now."

"Already?" he asked in surprise.

"Yeah," she said with a grin. "You must have found your happy place there for a while."

He flushed under her knowing look and felt like apologizing again.

"The next bit is going to go a little faster. I'm adding some detail. Just go back to your happy place, and we'll be done in about twenty minutes." She winked at him, pleased to see him grin at her suggestion.

He was wincing and twitching a bit before she was done, but they shared a smile of triumph when she stepped back and proclaimed him finished. He studied the explosion of orchid on his chest as if he'd never seen anything more fascinating in his life.

"Hang on," she said when he looked like he might jump of the table. "Let me…"

She began smearing ointment on his red, angry looking skin, and explained the finer points of caring for a new tattoo.

"…most of all, _don't_ let it dry out… Joe, are you even listening to me?"

"What?" He looked up at her with dazed eyes. "Course I am." He looked back down at the tattoo. "It's amazing, Phyllis. Just what I wanted. Just what I need."

"Hmmm…well, I think it looks pretty good," she said as she continued to slowly anoint his chest.

His gaze began to follow her gloved hand as it smoothed over and over his skin. All too soon, she dropped her hand and began stripping off her gloves. When she came closer to examine the tattoo, he wondered for a moment if she was going to touch him without the glove and wished she would.

"It should heal up well, Joe," she said, tipping her head to one side and looking over her work critically.

He reached up and took her hands in his. She looked curiously at him. Not dropping his eyes, he lifted her hands up and placed a gentle kiss on her knuckles.

"Thank you, Phyllis."

"What's this, then?" she asked a little breathlessly. "Most of my customers just yell 'Fuck Yeah!' and jump around pumping their fists when I finish."

"Stupid gits," he said with a little smile.

"Don't make fun of my client base and I won't make fun of yours," she replied, making no move to remove her hands from his.

He squeezed her hands and pulled her slightly towards him. Her heart beat faster and she resisted. He released her hands immediately and dropped his eyes.

"What's happening here, Joe?" she tried to ask matter-of-factly. That little shake in her voice, she decided to attribute to several days of strong emotional upheaval.

"I dunno," he muttered. As the little shake registered, he looked at her hopefully. "Maybe a beginning?"

**A/N - This was supposed to be the last chapter. It's not going to be. **


	7. The Discussion

The Discussion

Phyllis Baxter looked with increasing anxiety at the contents of her closet, laid across her bed, wondering just what the hell semi-formal really meant. She rather doubted her leather leggings would qualify, although she suspected that Joe wouldn't mind them.

"I meant to say no. I was about to say no. And then I said yes, and he somehow talked me into this nonsense… I don't fucking believe this."

Her voice disappeared into the noise coming from the shop underneath her flat. She was rarely home during the business day, and hadn't really noticed before how loud the Sharma teenagers were when they were helping after school. At the moment, there seemed to be an intense argument over the radio station.

She blocked out the clamor as best she could and began pacing the floor of her tiny bedroom, trying to come to a decision. When her cell phone began ringing, she eyed it like it might detonate and peered warily at the caller ID. Recognizing it, she breathed a sigh of relief.

"Yeah, Thomas?" she answered.

"You busy tonight?" he asked. Neither of them ever bothered much with pleasant exchanges.

"I dunno…maybe. Why?"

"I've got a few folks coming over to my flat. Thought you might join us, if you've got nothing else on."

Phyllis could hear several voices in the background, and at least one raucous laugh that she recognized as an old mate of Thomas' from York. Suddenly the thought of a wild evening pushing the limits of Thomas' landlord's tolerance didn't seem that appealing.

"I've probably got plans, Thomas. But ta, anyway."

"You've never got plans," he stated flatly. "If you don't want to come hang with us, just say so."

"Fine," she snapped. "I don't want to hang out with that pack of damp rags from York." Ignoring his sputters of protest, she continued: "And I do have plans. I've got a date."

"You're joking me!" His voice was suddenly muffled. "Hey, Phyllis has a date!" Sounds of impolite disbelief poured through her phone. "No, I'm not having you on!"

"Piss off!" Phyllis hissed at him, hanging up the phone and dropping it on her bed. It bounced off one of her possible outfits.

"Bloody hell," she moaned. "Damn Thomas, anyway…"

If she'd known that Joe's idea of a "beginning" would involve a formal outing, she'd have been more resolute in her intentions of shutting him down. But there had just been something about the way he'd looked at her…

_"A beginning to what, Joe?" she had asked, shaking her head._

_"I dunno," he'd mumbled, looking at the floor as if the courage that had gotten him this far had leaked out and formed an embarrassing puddle. Then he'd looked up with eyes that were hopeful in spite of being resigned. "We might just be good friends. We might… maybe we could…. Could we just see, maybe, where it goes?"_

_She had opened her mouth to say no. It was not a good idea; it wasn't right to give him false hope. This sort of thing just didn't work. She could think of a thousand reasons it wouldn't._

_She opened her mouth to say no, and saw in his eyes that he'd already heard it. And she suddenly remembered how his finger had gently traced along the scars in her dragon's claws. So when she opened her mouth, she didn't say no. She couldn't._

_"Alright," she replied quietly. "Let's see how it goes."_

_And his eyes had lit up in amazement, making her smile. And she forgot, just for a moment, that there were a thousand reasons why this wasn't going to work._

But now she was remembering them all as she cast a critical eye over her clothing options and cursed Thomas again for pushing her into making the decision to go. And cursed Joe for asking her out on her night off to some high-toned bistro he knew about where the wine list was incredible and the food almost as good.

It was quiet, and not as public as the Grantham Arms, he'd assured her. And then he'd joked about Charlie Carson's idea of a dress code and she'd felt the beginnings of doubt and frustration curl in her stomach.

Because this wasn't the chippy or the pub. This was a place with expectations she only knew how to live down to. And Joe was daft enough to be completely oblivious to it.

Her phone buzzed, indicating a text. She glanced at it, assuming it was Thomas with a nasty comment. It was Joe.

_Looking forward to tonight. Pick you up at 7?_

_What are you wearing?_ she texted back, hoping to get some hint for herself.

_Shirt slacks gardening gloves and an eyeshade. What are you wearing?_ he promptly texted back.

She snorted with laughter. _I mean what are you wearing tonight?_

_Suit and tie. Charlie won't let me in the door without._

Biting her lip, she looked over her options again. Her phone buzzed in her hand and she looked back at the screen, breaking into a broad grin.

_You never told me what you're wearing…_

Wondering how the hell he managed to make a text sound wistful, she decided that she simply couldn't cancel on him.

_Wouldn't you like to know… 7 will be fine._ Her finger hovered over the send button, then pressed it decisively.

_See you then!_

She was trying to match a sweater and a long black skirt when her phone buzzed again.

_I forgot. I don't know your address in Thirsk._

She rolled her eyes and texted him back.

* * *

Joe carefully maneuvered the van into the delivery slot behind _Sharma's Sundries_, trying not to run into the rubbish bins or Phyllis' scooter. He sat, looking at the wooden stairs going up to Phyllis' flat, trying to calm his nerves and hoping he wasn't sweating too much into his suit. A curious, young face appeared at the back entrance, then disappeared to be replaced by an Indian man with a suspicious stare.

Taking a deep breath, Joe turned off the van and got out. Immediately, the man burst out of the back door shaking his finger at Joe.

"No, no, no," he scolded. "This space is for deliveries only. We did not order any flowers. You must park in the front."

"Oh… sorry. I'm here to pick up Miss Baxter. She told me to park around by the…" He trailed off when the man's eyebrows shot up. "Er…I'll go back around front, then."

"You're here to pick up Miss Baxter?" the man repeated incredulously.

Joe stood awkwardly, trying to decide if he should get back into the van and try to back it out under the critical scrutiny of the man, whom he assumed was Mr. Sharma. As they stared at each other, the door to the flat opened and shut, and both looked up to see Phyllis standing at the top, locking the door behind her.

Mr. Sharma looked back at Joe to see him smiling broadly as Phyllis made her careful way down the stairs.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Sharma," she said a bit breathlessly when she reached the bottom. She'd thrown caution to the wind and was wearing stilettos. It had been a long time. "I told Joe to pull around to the back; I didn't think he might be blocking a delivery."

"It's no matter…no matter at all," he assured her with a smile. "Next time, out front though?"

"Of course," she replied.

Joe's eyes lit up when they mentioned a "next time" and he couldn't stop his eyes from sweeping over her.

"You…ah, you look very…" He trailed off, giving the ever present Mr. Sharma a frustrated look. "Lovely," he finished weakly.

A little smile curled the corner of her mouth as she recognized his shy frustration. 'Lovely' wasn't a term that came to her mind for her ensemble of a tight, black skirt that fell to just above her knees and a sleeveless purple blouse she'd covered with a midriff cardigan. She felt decidedly unlovely, and a bit silly, but it was the only thing she could come up with in her wardrobe that seemed to approach semi-formal. Judging by his expression, Joe didn't seem to mind.

He blinked at her for a moment, coming around when Mr. Sharma snorted with amusement and rolled his eyes. Wishing them both a good evening, he went back into his shop, looking backwards at them at the door to give Joe what he could only construe as a warning glare.

"Joe? Will I do for this place?" she asked, a little hesitantly.

"What? Do what?" he asked in confusion. At her glare, he shook his head and tried to be coherent. "Oh, right. Of course you'll do, Phyllis. You look wonderful."

She shook her head. "I know better than that."

He made a noise of disagreement and ran around the van to open the passenger door for her. "Well, Mr. Sharma and I think you look wonderful. You're not going to argue with both of us, are you?"

"You're a liar," she replied with a grin. "He didn't say a word about it, and you know it."

"He didn't have to. You didn't see the look he gave me before he went inside."

"Ah..well, the Sharmas are lovely people," she said, a little embarrassed. "He might be a bit protective of his tenant."

"He seemed…nice," Joe mumbled unconvincingly as he backed the van out carefully. They both winced when his fender scraped against the corner of the building. "How the bloody hell does anyone deliver back here?"

"Carefully," she answered, taking a moment while he was concentrating to look him over. He was dressed in a grey suit with a crisp, white shirt and tie of subdued oranges and greens. She smiled when she recognized the design to be an orchid. His hair was actually slicked down with product and didn't look quite so unkempt. He cleaned up well.

"I hope you'll like the Bistro," he prattled cheerfully as they drove down the darkening roads. "Charlie has a wonderful chef, and he and Elsie keep an impressive cellar. That red plonk you drink at the Grantham Arms has nothing on what they've got. I think the special tonight is veal medallions, unless Mrs. P changes her mind and decides to make something else. She's been known to do that…"

While his enthusiasm was amusing, it was not allaying her anxiety. She began twisting the hem of her cardigan, wondering if her tattoos and unsophisticated outfit would garner them looks of disdain or half-hearted service. She wasn't a stranger to these things, and she usually went into situations of this sort with a hard edge of defiance. _Fuck 'em if they don't like it._

But she didn't feel that way this time. Joe was clearly looking forward to a nice evening for them, and she found that she didn't want anything to get in the way of that. He noticed her silence and stopped chattering, sneaking looks at her face when they'd pass under a streetlight.

"Phyllis? Is everything alright?"

"Yeah. Everything's fine," she replied, not looking at him.

"No it's not. What's wrong? You don't want to go to the Bistro?" he asked anxiously. His knuckles whitened as he clutched the steering wheel.

"It's not that…" she began. She stole a look at him, then wished she hadn't when her eyes met his earnest gaze. "It's just…well, look at me, Joe. I don't…"

She stopped as he signaled and pulled onto the verge. He put the van in park and gave her his full attention, which made her nervous.

"What are you doing," she snapped agitatedly.

"Pulling over," he said in a tone of surprise. "I can't look at you and watch the road at the same time."

She rolled her eyes. "I didn't mean look at me like I was hanging on the wall of a museum, Joe. I meant…I'm not sure this Charlie person is going to be happy to have me in his restaurant."

Joe tipped his head to one side like a flummoxed Labrador and looked at her in puzzlement. "Why ever not?"

"Bloody hell, Joe!" she barked, her frustration and anxiety finally exploding in the face of his obtuseness. "It's an upscale place, isn't it? Not usually the type of place my lot goes to."

"Your lot? Phyllis, you're not a lot. I mean…you're not like…" He watched a darkness come into her eyes and quickly tried to correct himself. "I mean, you're a woman I want to have dinner with. I wouldn't take you to a place where they wouldn't treat you well."

"Oh yeah? And how many women like me _have_ you taken to Charlie's Bistro? Make a habit of slumming, do you? So you know where you can get away with it?" Her voice rose angrily as she disregarded the hurt that filled his eyes.

They sat in silence, not looking at each other as Joe tried to get his emotions in order. Phyllis looked out her window feeling like a small boulder had taken up residence in her stomach and thinking she'd give about anything to take back the words she had just spit at him. She stole a glance at him as he drew in a deep breath.

"I'm sorry, Phyllis," he said in a small voice.

She looked at him sharply, not expecting him to start with an apology instead of some sort of defensive justification. He was staring fixedly over the top of his steering wheel.

"All I was thinking about was how much I wanted to have a lovely evening with you. I wanted to take you to the nicest place around, because I was so excited that you'd even go out with me at all." He turned slightly to glance at her, then swallowed and looked out the windshield again.

"I'm not slumming with you," he went on, a bit more firmly. "You're…you're a fascinating, talented woman. And you look incredible tonight and…well, you look incredible all the time," he hastened to add, bringing a ghost of a smile to her lips. "I'm just sorry I was so caught up in how happy I was, I didn't notice you were reluctant to go."

He sighed deeply and looked over at her with deep sadness in his brown eyes. 'I'll drive you back to your flat, if you'd rather, since I've already totally cocked up this evening."

"Stop, Joe," she blurted as he reached for the gear stick. She bit her lip when he looked at her questioningly.

"I had no right to say that to you. I was…well, I was nervous…" She flushed as he listened intently. "Alright, I was fucking _scared._ I was scared this was going to be a nightmare for me, that I'd get treated like shite and it would ruin your night and prove that this…this whatever we have here isn't going to work." She shook her head and let out a bark of bitter laughter. "So I was preemptively horrid to you. Yeah…that'll fix everything."

Joe wrinkled his brow as he tried to process what she had just said. His silence lasted long enough to make Phyllis begin to think she'd made a mistake being open with him. Her face grew stoney as she contemplated the difficulties of sharing a common wall with someone you had a brief, unsatisfying and tense history with. She was about to tell Joe to just drive her home when he shook his head like he was clearing it and turned to her, eyes shining with sudden hope.

"Hang on… do you want this whatever we have to work? You're not just humoring me?"

"What?" she asked, genuinely mystified as to how he'd gotten there from here.

"You were scared, you said, that you'd have a terrible night," he broke off to shake his head, "something I've about guaranteed; sorry about that…"

"You didn't do it by yourself," she muttered.

"You were scared that if you got treated like shite it would ruin my night and prove that we couldn't work." He repeated her words slowly, like he was still chewing on them.

"We're not working, Joe," she said flatly.

"But you want it to?" he asked with a touch of desperation.

"It can't."

"But do you want it to?" he asked again. "Because I do."

Phyllis threw up her hands in frustration as her cell began to ring. She silenced it without looking at the screen and jammed it back into her bag. The distraction gave her a moment to gather her thoughts, and she was able to speak gently to him.

"Here's the thing, Joe. You think that things will work if you only want it to, if you just try hard enough. That may be the way things have always worked in your life, but its never worked like that in mine." He looked like he was about to interrupt and she shook her head at him, placing her finger on his mouth for good measure.

"Let me finish," she ordered.

He nodded, rather hoping she wouldn't take her finger away. She didn't.

"Maybe it hasn't always worked like this for you, Joe. I'm not saying you've never been…disappointed, I guess. I'm saying, I can't even wrap me head around a world where I'm not disappointed. My lot makes the best of the disappointments, you know?" She looked at his face as he struggled to understand. "You don't know…alright. Here it is: If we keep trying to see where this goes, I'll always be expecting disappointment and that'll disappoint you. But you won't see it coming until it hits you in the face, and you'll…you'll get angry. You'll resent it."

"Phyllis…" he finally said from under her finger.

"I know how this will end, Joe. I know it doesn't matter what I want. So why don't we be sensible and try to avoid breaking each other's hearts, alright?"

He looked at her, shocked back into silence. She took her finger off of his lips to reach into her bag and viciously press ignore on her frantically buzzing phone.

"Obviously, I don't want to be sensible," he began cautiously, looking at her seriously. "I'm pretty sure I'm going to disappoint you eventually. I probably already have. But Phyllis, it matters to me what you want. It does."

Phyllis growled angrily and reached into her bag to stop her phone from incessantly buzzing and shaking. "I'll just turn it off," she mumbled. "It's probably Thomas being an arsehole."

Joe watched her wrestle with her phone, feeling his stomach clench and burn. By the time she had managed to turn it off, he was able to summon up a sad, little smile.

"We didn't even make it to the restaurant before I managed to fuck everything up. That's a record, even for me."

"You had reservations, didn't you? And something planned for when we got there?" she asked, returning his smile.

"Yeah, but Charlie's an old mate. He'll give me an earful, then he'll only charge me for the bottle of wine we didn't get to drink."

"I'm sorry, Joe. Really." She reached over and squeezed his hand. "But it's better we had this out sooner rather than later."

"Is it?" He checked his watch and looked at her thoughtfully. "You know…the reservations are for eight. We're going to miss that, but I'll bet we could still get a table…" At her dubious look, he shrugged. "It would be better than a take-away pizza, wouldn't it?"

"Yeah," she answered with a little smile. "It would. But I don't think I'm…"

"Can I at least give you dinner? No expectations about seeing where anything goes, not if you don't want that. Just dinner? I've…um…talked about you a bit, and Charlie and Elsie really would like to meet you."

She twisted her mouth and stared at him skeptically. "They want to meet me? Me? Really?" She gestured vaguely at herself.

"They really do. Can we go and eat?

"Just dinner?"

"Just dinner."

Phyllis took a deep breath and nodded. Joe smiled and put the van into gear. They maintained a silence that wasn't entirely uncomfortable as he drove slightly over the speed limit to the restaurant.

* * *

Charlie Carson's welcome wasn't exactly effusive until after he'd given Joe a good lecture. Then he was a genial host, getting them settled at a table and pouring them each a glass of wine, albeit muttering to himself about it having breathed for too long.

Joe took it all good naturedly, saving his cheek for the finger wagging Elsie Carson, who made a point of coming by their table to greet them and meet Phyllis. Not an eyebrow was raised, and she gradually stopped looking around nervously, waiting to catch them out in a whispered conversation or a contemptuous sneer behind her back.

"You've got some nerve, you know," Elsie teased Joe. "Demanding we reserve the best table for you, then not showing up for thirty minutes. What were you up to that you couldn't even call?"

"Uh…well, we were…" he stammered, having no idea how to respond to Elsie's insinuations. Joe stole a look at Phyllis, who was watching with amusement. Elsie caught the look and grinned.

"I'm sure you were," she said with a raised eyebrow as she left with a smile at Phyllis.

"I like her," Phyllis mused.

"That's good," Joe said enthusiastically, taking a sip of wine, and closing his eyes to savor the taste. "I've known them forever. They're friends of Dad's; kind of like an uncle and auntie."

"Wonderful. Now Uncle and Auntie Carson think we were late because I couldn't hold off shagging you in your van."

Joe's eyes snapped open and he inhaled the last bit of the wine. Phyllis couldn't help but laugh as he coughed. She scooted her chair closer to his, leaned across the small table and thumped him between the shoulder blades.

"No they don't," he protested, sputtering.

"I don't see how they could think otherwise. At least they don't seem bothered by it," she replied with a shrug.

"Phyllis! They don't think that…" Although, the way he'd been stuttering and looking at Phyllis…

She looked at him with a raised eyebrow. He stole a glance at Charlie, who was watching him from the door with an amused smirk.

"God, this is embarrassing," he groaned. "I'm sorry, Phyllis. I didn't mean—"

"I know that," she said, rolling her eyes. "And like I said, they don't seem bothered by it, or by me."

"Why should they be?" he asked indignantly. "They're not like…like…" At her challenging look, he glanced away. "They're not like _I was_ when I first met you. They're better than that."

"_You're_ not like you were when I first met you," she commented."You're better than that." She took a drink and her eyes widened at the quality.

"I'm glad you think so."

They smiled at each other for a moment until they were startled by Elsie clearing her throat. Grinning, she laid their plates in front of them and wished them bon appetit.

"She did everything but wink and throw her elbow into my ribs," Joe muttered as he began to cut into his veal.

"Occupational hazard of being a sexy beast," Phyllis said with sly grin.

He turned beet red and laid his knife down on the table. Phyllis covered her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Charlie and Elsie raised their eyebrows at each other across the restaurant.

The food was better than anything Phyllis had eaten in a long time, and for a while, they were simply too busy eating to talk about anything but the food. Joe stopped with two glasses of wine, making the excuse that he was driving; Phyllis wasn't about to pass up the opportunity to drink a better than decent red, and finished the bottle.

"So…" Joe began as their plates emptied. "Was it Thomas ringing you up?"

"I didn't even check," she replied in a surprised tone. "I suppose I'd better."

"Charlie goes a little ballistic when people pull out their cells at the table," he said in a low voice as she fumbled in her bag for her phone.

"Alright. I'll go out to the vestibule. Will that suit him?"

"If he had his way, cell phones would all be gathered and thrown into a large fire," Joe confided with a grin. "But Elsie is trying valiantly to drag him into the 21st century. Just flip him off if he gives you the eyebrows."

"I'll do no such thing," she replied with a giggle. Giving Joe a stern look, she strolled over to the vestibule and turned her phone back on. Immediately, it began vibrating in her hand, indicating 16 missed calls and messages from Mr. Sharma.

"What the hell?" she muttered, punching in her code for her voice mail. Charlie, who was looking disgruntled at the intrusion of the hated technology in his vestibule, watched her face go pale and her mouth drop open in shock and horror as she listened.

"Can I help, Miss Baxter?" he rumbled in concern as she disconnected from voice mail and stood clutching the phone.

"What? Oh..no, Mr. Carson. I've got to…oh God, I hope Joe's fit to drive," she replied, still reeling from the message.

"Wait here," he ordered gently. "I'll go get him."

She watched as Charlie went to the table and bent down to talk to Joe. His head whipped around to look at her with concern, and he pushed himself away from the table, dropping his napkin to the floor, in his haste to get up and hurry over to her.

"What is it, Phyllis?" he asked urgently.

"That was Mr. Sharma. He's been trying to reach me for the last two fucking hours. Someone firebombed the back of his store…some little ratbag racist troglodyte, most like." She began to pace agitatedly. "Are you fit to drive, Joe?"

"Course. I'll settle up and run you back, fast as I can." He cast a worried look at her and went to find Charlie.

Phyllis leaned against the wall and rubbed her arms, trying to calm down. Mr. Sharma had sounded almost panicked on the phone and had mentioned something about the back stairs, but his voice had been drowned out by sirens and yelling. She closed her eyes and tried to banish images of the Sharma girls and old Mother Sharma terrified or worse by the flames and the violence.

As she waited for Joe to return, her mind began to go to her flat and possible smoke or fire damage to her few possessions. The wonderful dinner she'd just eaten sat uneasily in her stomach, and she thought for a moment she might have to make a run for the loo.

"Phyllis? Are you going to be alright?"

Joe's worried voice made her blink and straighten up. He looked in her eyes and reached out unconsciously to push her hair back from her face. His touch on her cheek brought her back to the moment.

"Yeah…yeah. It's just the shock. And I'm worried about the Sharmas." She gave him a watery smile and he caressed her cheek with his finger once before dropping his hand reluctantly.

"Well, I'm ready. We should get back in about forty minutes, if we're lucky with the lights."

Phyllis took a deep breath and followed him out. Joe took off his suit coat and tossed it carelessly into the back of the van as he opened her door. They left the car park at an near reckless speed.

"Oh God…I didn't even tell Charlie how wonderful the meal was," she said as they pelted down the road.

"He'll understand," Joe assured her. As he steered the van confidently down the road, he placed his hand over hers on the set between them, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

She turned her hand over and returned it, staring out the windshield with a bleak expression.

* * *

They had to park three blocks away, due to the emergency vehicles blocking the roads near the shop. Phyllis kicked off her stilettos and left them sitting on the floor of the van before rushing at a near run towards the shop. Joe followed closely, worried that she might rush into danger. They were stopped yards away by a firefighter.

"That's my bloody flat, you wanker!" she yelled in his face.

Joe caught up, gasping a little from the unaccustomed exercise, and wondered if he'd have to hold Phyllis back.

"That is my tenant!" Mr. Sharma's voice boomed from nearer the shop. "Please let her pass!"

Phyllis slipped past the firefighter, followed by Joe who didn't bother asking if he could. The firefighter made as if to stop him, but rolled his eyes instead.

There was still smoke and steam rising up from behind the shop and caution tape had been strung around the whole building. The front looked untouched, and as Phyllis ran over to Mr. Sharma, she was relieved to see his mother, wife and two daughters standing nearby, looking like they were in shock.

"Is everyone alright, Mr. Sharma? Was anyone hurt?" she asked anxiously.

He shook his head vigorously and put his hands together in front of his face as if giving thanks. He looked at Joe with annoyed confusion at first, then ignored him completely.

"I am so thankful you were out tonight, Miss Baxter," he said sadly. "The little hooligans threw their bombs against the back of the shop and the stairs caught fire. You might have been caught in your flat!"

"What…you mean the stairs burned down?" she asked, stunned.

"They are very dangerous now," he informed her. "And there was a great deal of smoke and fire damage to your door. We do not know what the damage has been to your things. The firefighters will not allow us to try to get up there to see."

She stood in shocked silence. Mr. Sharma began to apologize profusely.

"No..no, Mr. Sharma. It's not your fault. I…I just don't know what I'm going to do until I can…" She broke off and a panic filled her eyes. "Is my scooter alright? I've got to have that!"

"I do not know," he replied, turning to look at a firefighter who had been waiting patiently to speak to the both. "Is her scooter damaged?"

"Doesn't look like it," the firefighter replied with a sympathetic look at Phyllis. "Mr. Sharma, we're going to have to close off the whole building until the arson squad and the police get done checking everything over. It may be a couple of days before you can reopen the shop."

Mr. Sharma flapped his hands at the firefighter impatiently. "Of course…of course. Will they catch these men? And punish them?"

"We'll do our best," he replied. His voice carried no confidence and Phyllis bit her lip and turned away from Mr. Sharma's desperately angry face.

"Can I go around and get my scooter?" she asked, suddenly weary. Her legs were beginning to shake.

Joe watched her carefully, wishing he could just pull her into his arms and hold her up. When she wobbled and began to stagger, he did reach out to grasp her hand. She clutched his arm with her other hand.

"I need to sit down," she muttered as her head began to spin. "Too much wine for this kind of excitement."

Joe helped her down to sit on the curb and sat next to her. The firefighter asked her if she needed medical attention.

"No," she snapped, "just my bloody scooter."

"Someone will bring it around," he assured her.

"What the fuck am I going to do now?" she said, looking through Joe as if he wasn't there.

"Well… I've got a spare room…" he said hesitantly.

She looked at him as if she wasn't sure she'd heard him correctly. "You're inviting me to stay at yours?"

Joe shrugged and nodded. Her incredulous stare didn't go away, and he began to wonder if he'd managed to put his bloody foot into his mouth yet again.

"I couldn't put you out," she said, shaking her head.

"You wouldn't be. I want you to. I mean…" He winced, not wanting to sound like he was begging. "I don't think you should be alone in some manky motel after all this. It's no bother at all."

"Wouldn't be the first time I've stayed at a manky motel alone."

"Well…you don't have to this time." He looked at her with worried eyes. "Please…come stay for tonight at least. Give yourself a chance to rest and figure things out tomorrow."

Before she could respond, a firefighter appeared through the multi colored lights, wheeling her scooter around the corner of the building, through the crowd. She looked at Joe, and then back at her scooter.

"What about my scooter? I can't leave it here?"

"It should fit into the back of the van. We can give it a shot anyway," he added at her doubtful look. "You can't possibly ride it after all you've had to drink tonight."

She scowled at him, then sighed impatiently and stood up. Mr. Sharma saw her and hurried over to them.

"Fine," she said reluctantly as her landlord arrived at her side.

"Oh, Miss Baxter! We will most certainly pay for your lodging tonight," he offered, casting a suspicious glance at Joe.

"That's alright, Mr. Sharma. I'm sure you've got enough on your plate right now. My…friend here has offered me a place for the night."

"Are you quite sure?" he asked Phyllis, deepening his glare at Joe. Joe glared back at him.

"God, this has been the most surreal night," she muttered, rolling her eyes as Joe and Mr. Sharma vied for _most obnoxiously protective_. "Yes, I'm sure, Mr. Sharma. I'll call you tomorrow and check in on everything, alright?"

Mr. Sharma agreed reluctantly, and she and Joe wheeled her scooter over to the van. It took some doing, but they managed to get it inside. The doors wouldn't close properly, but Joe had quite a bit of twine in the back, and tied them as securely as he could.

Phyllis collapsed in the passenger seat as Joe secured the doors and stared through the windshield at the bustle of firefighters and police appearing in and out of the swirling lights. She could feel her stomach pitching and churning and shut her eyes against the glare.

Joe shut the driver's side door as quietly as he could and watched the muscles move under her cheeks as she clenched her eyes shut. As she tipped her head back against the seat, the flashing lights leeched the color out of the tattoos on her arms and the top of her chest throwing them into stark relief against her skin, like a chiaroscuro print. For a moment, the lines and blocks of shadow seemed to be trying to escape the confines of her skin and he caught his breath in anticipation. She raised her hand to wearily rub her forehead and opened one eye to peer at him questioningly. Without a word, he started the van and maneuvered carefully through the barriers and activity. Neither said a word until he pulled up outside of his cottage.

"We're here, Phyllis," he said unnecessarily.

She opened her eyes and looked at him with a raised eyebrow. Before she could reply, her phone buzzed with a text. She glanced down to see that it came from Thomas.

_Give Molesley a big sloppy kiss from us!_

Her jaw clenched as she typed in a response.

_Go fuck yourself._

Joe didn't ask. Instead, he got out of the van and went around to the passenger side, opening her door for her as if this was the conclusion of a perfectly ordinary night out.

"Can we leave the scooter in your van for now, Joe?" she asked tiredly as she got out.

"Yeah. No worries."

He went ahead to unlock the door and turn on the lights. Phyllis looked around curiously as she entered the cottage. She only knew that he'd grown up here, and it didn't seem like he'd put much of his own stamp on it after his father moved out a few years ago.

There were houseplants all over the place of course, but they were artfully arranged so that it was appealing rather than distracting. No sooner were they in the door than Joe was feeling the soil of a large, spindly rubber tree in the front window. He turned back to her with a sheepish smile.

"He's..um, not been well," he started to explain.

"I hope he gets better soon," she replied with a small grin.

"Yeah. Um…I'm sure you're worn out," he said, feeling oddly ill at ease in his house. "Let me show you where you'll sleep…" He led the way down the hall, his mind churning a mile a minute, wondering if the bedding was reasonably fresh and the room straightened.

Phyllis continued to look around, noticing a pile of uses dishes on the mat next to the sink and a pair of trousers thrown over the back of a kitchen chair. She smiled at the evidence that he hadn't been planning for a guest.

Joe pointed out the bathroom in the corridor, and then mumbled something about waiting while he made sure the room was ready. Phyllis waited patiently, listening to him throw things around and chastise himself as a slob under his breath.

"Come on in," he said, popping his head out of the door, looking harried. "Mind the Christmas Cactus," he warned. "She's gotten a bit out of control."

She cast a wary eye on the enormous, sprawling cactus that crouched menacingly on a table near the window. Joe watched her anxiously as she took in the double bed and wardrobe against the wall. Suddenly a slightly panicked look spread over his face.

"Oh…you don't have anything…let me get…" He bolted from the room as Phyllis stifled a giggle at his agitation.

He returned with a set of pajamas and a new toothbrush in a package. She took them gratefully, eyeing the pajamas that were clearly going to be too large for her.

"I'm sorry. That's all I have."

"I'd be a bit shocked to find you had a collection of women's nightwear stashed away in your cottage, Joe," she said, holding the pajamas closer to her. She could smell the fresh laundry soap, and found it comforting.

Joe laughed nervously and shifted from foot to foot, wondering if he should just say goodnight, but not wanting to look like he was running off. Phyllis watched him for a moment, then set the pajamas and toothbrush down on the bed.

"Thank you, Joe," she said, stepping over and wrapping her arms around him. He hesitated a second before returning the hug.

"Goodnight, Phyllis. Sleep well," he said softly when she stepped back.

"Goodnight, Joe."

He smiled and turned to leave the room.

"Joe?"

He stopped and turned back to look at her.

"For the record… if this could ever work, I'd want it to."

A smile spread over his face and he nodded, afraid to open his stupid gob and say anything to ruin the moment.

He was still smiling like a fool when he gave the rubber tree too much water and wandered off to his bedroom.

**A/N- We're pretty well in un-outlined territory now, so your guess is as good as mine where this is going...**


	8. The Fear

The Fear

"You're telling me your flat was firebombed?" Thomas asked for the third time.

"No, I'm telling you Mr. Sharma's shop was firebombed and my flat was caught in it and now I can't get up to it so will you, for fuck's sake, just watch the bloody shop so I can go buy a set of clean, bloody knickers!"

Thomas took a wary step back. Phyllis glared at him, tears of anger and frustration glistening in her eyes after a fitful night's sleep at best and a far earlier morning than she would have liked.

"No problem…no problem," he assured her. "I'm still hungover from last night and can't wrap my head around the whole thing."

Phyllis clenched her hands at her side and shut her eyes until she felt like she could respond. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes to see Thomas take yet another step back and watch her with concern.

"I'll be alright, Thomas," she sighed. "I just need a change of clothes and some time to figure out what I'm going to do."

"Molesley sure knows how to show a girl a good time," he replied with a twitch of his lips.

"Don't start," she growled. "What would you know about showing a girl a good time?"

"None of my dates ever involved arson," he replied. She raised an eyebrow at him.

"What about that November 5th bonfire three years ago…?"

"That wasn't my fault! He may have been drop dead gorgeous, but he was a total nutter. Creative use of sparklers my ass…"

Phyllis didn't try to hold back her snort of laughter. She caught Thomas' satisfied smirk and shook her head.

"If it hadn't been for Joe, I'd have spent the night in a manky room somewhere," she scolded.

"Don't be stupid. There's always a sofa for you at my flat. Although I'd have had to turf Jimmy off of it for you…"

"Oh, really?"

"He was too hammered to drive home."

"That'll make for an interesting morning at the flower shop," she mused. "Joe's not in the best of moods after last night."

"Oh, really?" he asked, mimicking her tone and raising a suggestive eyebrow.

"He dropped my scooter trying to get it out of the back of his van and it banged up his lower leg." Phyllis looked thoughtful for a moment. "I had no idea he had that kind of mouth on him…"

"Maybe he was saving something back for the second date," Thomas muttered.

"That's it…I'm off," she replied, rolling her eyes. "I'll be back when I've picked up a few things."

"What do I tell Molesley if he comes sniffing around?" Thomas called as she left.

"Tell him I'm gone to get new knickers!" she called back, slamming the backdoor of the shop behind her and cutting off Thomas' gale of laughter.

* * *

Jimmy winced as Mrs. Glastonby's voice screeched across the shop.

"I really must talk to Mr. Molesley," she demanded, ignoring Jimmy's bloodshot eyes and sad expression. "I don't think I can trust this order to anyone else!"

"Of course not, Mrs. Glastonby," he said soothingly, trying gamely to keep a nauseated grimace from his face. "He wouldn't want you to settle for anything less. He is busy in the office at the moment, but I'm sure when I tell him you're here he'll—"

"For heaven's sake then, go and get him. And stay back there yourself. You look like you've caught something nasty and tropical. What Joseph Molesley is thinking, letting you man the front of the store in your condition, I cannot imagine…"

Jimmy staggered towards the back of the store and clutched the door jam to Joe's office, desperate to stay upright. Joe glared at him from his seat, shifting his propped up leg uncomfortably.

"She right about one thing," Joe informed him irritably, "you look pathogenic."

Jimmy began muttering apologies, which Joe waved off impatiently. Grunting in pain, he swung his leg down and stood up with a sigh.

"Just stay in the back for now," he ordered. Jimmy nodded gratefully, then blanched as if such vigorous head movement wasn't such a great idea.

"I may have had a better night than him," Joe observed as he watched Jimmy lurch towards the washroom and slam the door. Gritting his teeth, he limped to the front of the store, ready to pacify Mrs. Glastonby, who had been the reigning queen of the Downton Church Altar Guild for over 30 years and who never ordered less than 40 pounds worth of flowers for any given Sunday.

"Ah well, our Jimmy's a trooper is all. He um…can't bear to miss work. I can assure you, he's not contagious," he found himself assuring the older woman after a clipped lecture on the propriety of allowing a visibly unwell shop worker to be in front where the customers were. His smiled was strained and a muscle jumped in his jaw as he tried to keep his voice pleasant.

Mrs. Glastonby was not entirely convinced. She looked aside at a display basket with a skeptical sniff that made Joe want to apologize to the affronted Lobelias for her rudeness.

"Well…you don't don't look so good yourself, Mr. Molesley," she observed, her eyes narrowing as if she suspected some sort of collusion of maladies in her local flower shop. "Have you hurt yourself?"

"Me? Oh, I'm fine," he replied as politely as he could through gritted teeth. "I've banged up my leg a bit, but nothing serious at all."

Joe suppressed a groan as Mrs. Glastonby opened her mouth to begin a full fledged inquiry. He lowered his head slightly, reminding himself of the standing order she brought. But before she could work herself up to full cry, the door bell went off, startling them both.

Phyllis strolled into the shop, smiling with amusement as she recognized the frustrated set of Joe's jaw and his obvious delight and relief at seeing her.

"Hello Miss Baxter," he greeted her cheerfully, making Mrs. Glastonby's carefully shaped eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. For her part, Mrs. Glastonby couldn't hide her shock at seeing Phyllis stroll into the shop, nor could she mask her disdain as her eyes traveled up and down the tattoos on her arms, bare in the sleeveless blouse she had worn the night before.

Joe noticed, of course, that she had acquired some form fitting jeans and black sandals in place of her skirt and stilettos. His pang of disappointment was soothed when he noticed that the jeans were quite form fitting.

Mrs. Glastonby dropped a few more pointed comments about how long it had been since any of the Molesleys had been seen at services, paid for her order, stressed that the delivery must be precisely at 2pm on Saturday, and swept out of the shop. Joe and Phyllis watched her go, both breathing a sigh of relief when the door shut firmly behind her.

"Bloody hell," Phyllis said, staring after her. "That one needs a crown of thorns tattooed on her ample left arse cheek. Even her neck flesh wobbled self-righteously."

She turned to look curiously at Joe as he began emitting strangled noises, his face turning bright red. Finally, he could hold it in no longer and brayed in hysterical laughter. Phyllis grinned as she watched him clutch the side of the counter to hold himself up.

A dripping Jimmy wobbled up slowly from the back. He'd clearly stuck his head under the faucet in the washroom. His greeting to Phyllis was cut short as he watched his boss stagger behind the counter in uncontrollable giggles.

"If you…care…for me…at all," Joe gasped, trying to get back under control, "you will…never…ever…mention Mrs. Glastonby's…left arse cheek…again."

Jimmy looked alarmed and even further nauseated. He looked at Phyllis for an explanation.

She just shook her head and watched Joe limp out from behind the counter.

"You really racked it up," she said, nodding at his leg. "Better let me take a look at it."

"It's nothing," Joe said dismissively, even as he wobbled and grunted when he brought his weight down on it.

"Go on, then," she ordered firmly. "I can either look at it in your office, or you can drop trou right here in the front window."

Jimmy snickered as Joe glared at them both.

"I'm fine, I said," he muttered. "And I'm not dropping trou in my place of business."

"Not without the right incentive, anyway?" Phyllis asked with a mischievous arched eyebrow.

"Jimmy, watch the front," he snapped, limping back to his office.

"A fiver says he drops trou whenever she says to," Jimmy muttered to himself as he watched them disappear into Joe's office, slamming the door.

"Was that really necessary?" Joe asked petulantly as he collapsed into his chair.

"Obviously, since you gave me cheek about it," she replied, motioning for him to roll up the leg of his trousers.

He rolled his eyes and complied reluctantly. Phyllis winced when she saw the bruises and lacerations on his shin.

"It's not as bad as it looks."

"Why didn't you wait for me to help you?" she demanded, kneeling down and slipping her hand under his calf to get a better angle.

"Didn't want to wake you," he muttered, shivering from her touch on his bare leg.

She looked up at him with exasperation. "Joe, I'd been awake since you got up at the crack of dawn to do a load of laundry and water your house jungle. The agitator of your washer is definitely unbalanced…" She paused as he flushed deeply.

_He'd surged awake with a gasp, the last bits of his dream and the feeling of her hands on his hips and her lips on his thighs playing vividly in his head as he panted. He closed his eyes and reached reluctantly under his sheets, grimacing when he encountered the warm stickiness. Grumbling and cursing, he stripped the bed and stripped out of his pants.. As he passed the door to her bedroom,on his way to the enclosed porch where the washer and dryer sat, he could feel his cheeks burning and he stuffed the washer carelessly, trying to be done as quickly as possible._

"Sorry about that. I overloaded it."

"Were you washing every piece of bedding you have, or something," she asked absently as she touched the large, angry bruise blossoming just under his kneecap.

"That's tender," he hissed, jerking in his chair. She gentled her touch, running her finger lightly down a long cut, then she stood up with a sigh and walked to the door.

"Jimmy, is there a first aid kit handy?" she hollered towards the front. "Fetch it to me,would you?"

Jimmy garbled something that sounded like an affirmative, and Phyllis waited, tapping her foot impatiently for him to hand it to her. She thanked him and shut the door in his face.

"I already took care of it," Joe protested as he watched her dig out cotton wool, plasters, and a large bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

"Drenching it with a hosepipe doesn't count as 'taking care of it.' Now be still…"

Kneeling back down, she took his calf in her hand again and began cleaning the long laceration. Joe sputtered and tried to jerk away, making her tighten her grip on his calf and glare sternly at him.

"You sat through a tattoo that took over an hour, but you can't handle a little peroxide on your cut?" she scolded. "There now…all done." She smiled up at him and ran her fingers gently over his shin. "Not so bad, was it?"

Joe squirmed uncomfortably in his seat as her caressing fingers sent little bolts of heat to the rest of him. Hoping she hadn't noticed his heavier breathing, he swallowed hard when she braced her hands on his thighs and stood up.

"Not so bad," he muttered, disappointed at losing her touch and relieved that her eyes were no longer hovering at the level of his groin.

"Good," she replied quietly.

Joe looked at her with a multitude of questions in his eyes, hoping he hadn't seemed too ungrateful. She cleared her throat.

"Thanks again, Joe. For everything."

"I didn't damage your scooter, did I?"

"The scooter definitely got the best of that one, Joe," she replied. "It's fine. I was able to get over to Ripon and pick up a few things until I can get back into my flat, no problems at all."

"Did you find anything out yet? About the fire? Not that I'm in any hurry for you to leave the cottage," he hastened to add when a trouble line appeared on her brow. He wished he could reach up and smooth it away. "I like having you there."

"Well, I didn't find out much," she replied, smiling at his hasty assurances. "Mr. Sharma said they don't know anything yet, but they're questioning 'persons of interest' which probably means every little spotty, racist, toe rag in the vicinity. He offered to put me up in a hotel again…"

"That's not necessary," Joe protested. "You can stay with me."

"Thomas offered me his sofa," she said, watching the dismay spread across his face. "Of course, that'll mean putting up with the hordes of friends and ex-lovers he's got going through his flat like he's installed a revolving door." She smiled and flicked her eyes towards the closed door. "And that would mean Jimmy would have to find a new place to crash when he gets plastered."

Joe rolled his eyes, not wanting to think too hard about Jimmy's crashing arrangements. "Sounds like quite the deal," he said sarcastically. "Can't imagine why you'd want your own room and some peace and quiet with that on offer."

"It's hardly peace and quiet if you're going to be tending to your domestic chores at 6 in the bloody AM," she retorted. "Thomas sleeps in, at least."

"If I promise not to do early laundry, will you stay with me?"

"Well…I did turn Mr. Sharma down. He's got too much on to be worrying about me right now. And I'm not sure the expense wouldn't stress him."

"Then stay in the cottage," he urged, hoping it didn't sound like he was begging.

"Alright," she agreed quietly, her shoulders slumping in release of tension she hadn't been aware she had been carrying. It wasn't only the Sharma's finances she was concerned about, and if Joe hadn't extended his invitation, it would have been Thomas' sofa for her. "Thank you again."

"I'm glad to do it," he said. not bothering to hide how pleased he was. "Hang on…" Joe rummaged through his pockets and brought out one of his key rings. "Here," he continued, taking a key off and handing it to her. "I've got a spare, so you can have this one."

Phyllis bounced the key in the palm of her hand. "Seems a bit fast for you to give me the key to your place after only one date," she teased, enjoying the way the back of his neck turned red.

A weak knock at the door to the office saved Joe from having to reply. Jimmy stuck his head in cautiously, as if he was afraid of what he might witness. He goggled at Joe's shin, then asked in a low mutter if he might go home a bit early.

"Go on," Joe replied with a wave of his hand. "Get out of here. And don't come in tomorrow looking like a pile of cat sick, alright?"

Jimmy agreed and headed for the door with more purpose than he'd shown all day, pulling out his phone as he lurched out onto the sidewalk. Phyllis was willing to bet that Thomas' cell was ringing about now.

"Well," she said to Joe. "I've got to get back to the shop. I'll try to be as quiet as I can coming in tonight."

"Would you like me to bring some take away by your shop after I close?" Joe offered. "Save you having to go out again, or having to eat whatever Thomas brings back."

"That would be great. Thanks," she said with a grateful smile. As she left him sitting in his office, staring thoughtfully at a menu, she wondered exactly when things had gotten so easy between them.

* * *

Joe made every effort to stay awake. He'd repotted everything that could be repotted and several that shouldn't have been. He'd brought the basil plants off of the kitchen windowsill in to watch a little footie on the telly. He'd even tried to shift the Christmas Cactus out of Phyllis' room, but gave up after a particularly vicious stab wound.

When Phyllis carefully opened the front door and stole inside, she stopped dead at the sight of Joe sitting on the sofa with his head tipped back, snoring. She took in the crawl of the international cricket scores, the basil plants grouped neatly on the sofa next to him, the dirt in the folds of his knuckles, and the aloe glistening brightly on a nasty looking irritation on his left wrist. Clapping her hand over her mouth, she was able to smother the flood of giggles that were making her legs weak.

Her efforts were for nothing though when he began to mutter in his sleep and wave his hands around like he was deadheading begonias. The crescendo of her laughter pulled Joe from a troubling dream wherein he was trying to reattach blooms onto a bush that Jimmy had ruthlessly pruned.

He lifted his head, wincing at the crick in his neck, and blinked his eyes blearily. A half awake smile spread across his face when he saw Phyllis leaning against the wall of the sitting room, watching him in amusement.

"You're home," he said in a raspy, sleep-filled voice.

For years, it had felt like she'd swallowed a piece of ice and gotten it stuck in her esophagus behind her lungs. In the space of a minute, it felt like it melted, leaving a cold place in her chest that was rapidly filling with warmth again. Maybe it was his dopey smile that made her feel like her fingers were tingling with the urge to touch him. Or maybe it was the way he called his house her home. Perhaps it was ridiculous tableau that had greeted her when she arrived, or the fact that he had clearly tried to wait up for her. Phyllis wasn't sure what prompted the impulse.

She shifted the basil plants off to the side and sat down next to him, leaning over to kiss him softly on the forehead. His eyes shut as she pressed her lips gently over his brow and he sighed deeply.

"You didn't have to wait up, Joe."

"I didn't, actually, as you can see," he replied, waving his hand vaguely.

"You tried." She looked over at the basil plants in their little pots and was about to say something, then just grinned and shook her head.

"I was hoping to see you to say goodnight is all," he said with an almighty yawn.

Phyllis cupped his cheek and scuffed her thumb on the corner of his mouth, which twitched up in a smile. "Goodnight, Joe," she whispered.

His hand reached up to touch the side of her head as she pulled back. She leaned into it for a moment, then stood up and held out her hand. He stared at it, then grasped it and she pulled him up off of the sofa.

"Do you need any help getting these plants back to where they belong?"

"What? Oh…these…" He looked down at the basil plants like he'd forgotten they were even there. "I can get them."

Joe looked down to their joined hands and shook his head. "I'm not convinced I'm not still asleep on the sofa."

"Are you dreaming?" she asked with a smile, squeezing his hand.

"I suppose I must be," he replied, sounding a little dazed.

"Dream about me a lot, do you?"

"All the time," he admitted, looking into her eyes. "I don't even have to be asleep."

Phyllis looked thoughtfully at him. "I never would have guessed it when I met you, but you can be rather charming when you want to be."

"Can I? Must be accidental."

Phyllis laughed softly and let go of his hand. "I'll see you tomorrow, Joe."

He nodded and yawned again. After wearily replacing the basil plants on the windowsill, he wandered to his bedroom, pausing momentarily outside of Phyllis' door to listen to her faint going-to-bed noises.

He dreamed again, of course, of a kiss on the forehead that became much, much more. But not being completely daft, refrained from doing the washing as soon as he woke with a shudder and a groan.

As Phyllis lay in the dark, feeling unsettled at how close she had been to simply leading him back to her room with her, she wondered what his dreams of her were like.

* * *

Three days later, and Joe was beginning to realize that sharing a house didn't mean that he saw more of Phyllis than he had before. Even when he managed to stay up late enough to say goodnight, they only exchanged a few words before Phyllis went to bed - usually after she scolded him for staying up in the first place. He tried not to pester her at work, figuring that Jimmy's semi-perpetual presence was quite enough to be going on with. And the tattoo shop seemed to be busier than the flower shop at the moment.

But after three days of seeing her only in passing, he determined to be a bother long enough to find out if there was any news about her flat. Both of them were busy with customers. Thomas glanced up, saw who it was, and rolled his eyes. Phyllis looked over at him and smiled a bit absently. She nodded to the sofas and went back to concentrating on the fine line work she was doing on her client's upper arm.

"If you're not here for another tattoo, then quit taking up space," Thomas yelled over the music pounding out of the stereo next to his station.

Joe ignored him and watched Phyllis at her work instead, fascinated as a delicate and detailed picture of a black and gray rowan tree took shape under her needles. The young woman receiving the tattoo looked stoically at the wall. Remembering his own twitching and his anxious need to watch the procedure, he rubbed his chest lightly and flushed with embarrassment.

He sat for thirty minutes as Phyllis put the finishing details on the intricately twisted tree. In the back of his mind, he remembered that he'd left Jimmy in charge, but watching Phyllis' face as she concentrated drove most of his anxiety away.

Phyllis glanced over at him as she finished up and instructed the woman on how to care for her tattoo. Joe watched the woman hug Phyllis tightly and leave with no money exchanged. His tattoo had cost a hundred quid, and he made a mental note to ask about it someday.

Phyllis came over to the sofa and collapsed beside him, exhaling heavily and shutting her eyes. Joe's hand hovered over hers for a moment, then he quietly placed it back by his side.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," she finally said, opening one eye.

"No worries. Jimmy's got the shop and we're not very busy." He looked over at Thomas, who was paying them no mind, and lowered his voice. "And I like watching you work. That tree was lovely."

"I was meant to do it for her yesterday, without all this…" she waved her hand in Thomas' general direction, "…going on. But she… she wasn't able to come in like we'd planned."

Sensing that there was something deeper going on than just a tattoo, Joe didn't pry. "Well…it was amazing work."

She smiled at him and sat up straighter, patting his knee as she did.

"I'm actually glad you dropped by," she said, chewing on her lip as she prepared to ask a favor.

"That's good," he replied, transfixed by the pinch of her lip between her teeth. "I can remember a time when you weren't."

She gave him a fond exasperated look. "Don't make me change my mind…"

"I haven't changed mine!" Thomas yelled from across the room.

Phyllis flipped him off without looking at him.

"I talked to Mr. Sharma earlier—"

"That's what I dropped by to ask about," he interrupted cheerfully.

"So…listen then. He's arranged for a mobile stair - I don't know what it's called - to come by tomorrow so the insurance bloke can get up to the flat. It may be my only chance to get up there and see what I've got left…"

"What time?" Joe asked excitedly. "It's a Saturday, and the shop is only open until noon, so I can drive you over anytime in the afternoon. I could even have Jimmy open and run things… I'd have to give him a key though…"

"How about tomorrow at 2?" she broke in, smiling at the line that appeared in his forehead at the thought of trusting Jimmy with that much responsibility. "Thomas will take care of things here."

"Alright! It's a date!"

"Don't you remember what happened the last time you dated?" Thomas yelled derisively. "We're running out of places to burn!"

"Piss off!" Phyllis yelled back.

* * *

Phyllis' mind was racing as she flopped onto her bed. Thomas had been contentious and bitchy all evening until she'd finally snapped and threatened to beat seven shades of shit out of him if he didn't tell her what was eating at him. In the midst of his snide and dismissive comments and complaints about Joe, she began to realize her friend was hurt that she hadn't asked him for help since the firebombing.

It took a while for her to work through his attitude and she wasn't convinced he understood how things stood between her and Joe. She wasn't convinced that she understood how things stood between her and Joe.

But as she tried to focus on Joe and what was really happening for her, her mind kept going back to the firebombing, Mr. Sharma's fear and anger, and her trepidation about what might be left of all her worldly goods. The police had come up with exactly nothing, and Mr. Sharma was more frustrated every time she spoke to him. The last time they'd spoken, when he'd told her about the mobile stair, he'd nearly lost his usually impeccable English proclaiming that he and his family wouldn't be intimidated by nameless, bastard thugs.

Phyllis gripped the edge of her duvet tightly, thinking about "nameless, bastard thugs." Nameless, bastard thugs that didn't need the impetus of racism to gleefully hurt and destroy. Nameless, bastard thugs who would work for pay or promises…or out of sheer fear. She'd been surrounded by their sort before.

She knew the type who would firebomb a business owned by an Indian family, just for the hell of it. The bastard thug she'd been married to had several of them on a string, and they'd hung around far too often, being casually intimidating and nasty, but never crossing the line out of fear of Peter.

The face of her ex-husband swam up into the darkness of her room - darkness that had been as comforting as a old quilt until he crawled under it with her, stinking of beer, grabbing her with hard hands. After spending years kept on constant edge by his temper, his whims, and his charm, she'd thought she was free of him - free of the threat, free of his name, even, with the papers she'd finally signed. Papers with her name. Papers with her address…

_"Once they're delivered to him, it doesn't matter if he signs them or not. Under the circumstances, he can't contest the divorce, Miss Baxter."_

_"But what will be on the papers? My name? My address?" she'd asked anxiously._

_"Not to worry," the clerk's voice had replied dismissively. "It's all redacted."_

_She'd watched him toss the forms into a basket on her desk, carelessly, as if he didn't hold an open door into Phyllis's life in his hand. As if he was humoring her._

_"No skin off your ass in any case, is it?" she'd asked, before turning to leave, mouth set in a grim line, feeling his exasperated glare driving through her shoulder blades into her chest._

She curled up on her side, biting hard on the heel of her hand, knowing that she had opened the door back into her life with the divorce papers, and suddenly certain that the Sharma's had nearly paid for it. And that Joe might…

Her chest heaved as iron bands of panic tightened around her head. She couldn't stay - not here, not with Thomas, not at the shop. How far and fast would she need to push her scooter to outrun the fear that had returned in a way it hadn't for fucking years? How could she leave this place in her life that she'd worked all her life to achieve? How could she leave behind the bold assertion on her forearm that They were wrong?

How could she leave Joe? And Thomas? And a life finally worth living?

Suddenly determined to find her sketchbook and scribble until some of the poison had leeched out of her, she threw back the duvet and lurched out of the bed. Her hip struck the easel she'd set up and it clattered to the floor with a bang. Cursing and trying to avoid it slamming on her foot, she overcorrected and bounced straight into the ominously hulking Christmas Cactus.

"_Bloody fucking Christ!_"

Joe, who had been struggling awake out of a deep sleep from the crash and bang from Phyllis' room, bolted upright in his bed at her scream. He staggered up as he heard her door fly open and slam into the wall of the corridor hard enough to dent the plaster.

"Phyllis?" he hollered, bursting out of his own room. She was disappearing into the kitchen, gasping and sobbing, and he followed on her heels. Without thinking, he flicked the light on and blinked painfully as the harsh light struck his eyes, illuminating Phyllis hunched over the sink in his spare pajama top, which appeared to be all she was wearing.

"Oh God! What happened?!"

Phyllis clutched the side of the sink, retching from the sudden pain and emotional upheaval. Joe was stood in the doorway blinking as she reached around tentatively to her hip and jerked her hand back before she could touch the tiny spines broken off and imbedded there.

As soon as he realized what had happened, Joe rushed to the sink and soaked a flannel with hot water. He tried to hand it to Phyllis, who refused to let go of the sink to take it.

"Put it on the spot, Phyllis," he urged. "It'll help the little pokey bits to fall out."

She shook her head and gripped the sink even tighter.

"Let me see…" he said, reaching to lift up the pajama top over her hip, revealing a flaming area of irritation and frustratingly small spine tips imbedded into her hip, just above her knickers. "Oh God…Phyllis, I'm _so_ bloody sorry."

Phyllis tried to slap his hand away from the injury, but he placed the hot cloth directly on it. She tried to jerk away, bumping into the sink and bruising her pubis.

"Please," he begged, "please let me tend this. I know what to do."

The heat of the washcloth seeped into the swath of scratches and punctures, soothing the sting. As her breathing calmed, she began to realize what a fuss she'd made over a relatively small injury and she averted her eyes from Joe's concerned gaze.

Joe ran the flannel under the tap again and replaced it, wondering at her agitation. He gently swept across the inflamed area, trying to ignore the way the water was dripping onto her knickers and soaking the thin cotton.

"She got you pretty good," he said conversationally as Phyllis began to relax and let go of the sink.

"I'm sorry I woke you," she muttered.

"It's my fault for leaving the damn thing in there. I should have gotten rid of it long ago, but it was Mum's favorite."

He continued to gently scrub at the inflamation as he spoke until he was sure he'd gotten all the little spines out. Phyllis looked over at him as he fetched a bottle of aloe from a cupboard.

"This ought to help," he continued. "Dad always hated it, that cactus. He did everything but pour acid into the pot to kill it, but Mum always managed to save it." He gave a little snicker as he remembered his parents' good natured battle of wills over the sprawling succulent.

Phyllis listened absently as his voice soothed her as much as the thick, cool gel he was spreading on her hip.

"When Mum was in her final days, she told Dad he could get rid of it after her funeral, if he wanted. But he never did. Couldn't bear to, I guess."

The feeling of his fingertips massaging the aloe onto her hip was comforting, and she was disappointed when he stopped.

"Does it still hurt?" he asked anxiously, reaching up with the flannel to wipe her fresh tears away.

"No. Not really," she answered with a hitch in her voice.

"How about a cup of tea?" he asked.

At that, she sat down on a kitchen chair and began sobbing silently into her hands. Joe sat down next to her and put his hand on her back.

"I'm sorry… God, I'm so sorry, Joe," she gasped between sobs.

"Whatever for?" he asked in genuine mystification. "Phyllis, I don't give a toss about the bloody cactus…."

"I can't stay here."

"I'll get rid of the damn thing! First thing tomorrow…"

"It's not the cactus, Joe!" She tried to staunch the tears, but the brief, hurt look that flashed across his face when she snapped at him just increased them.

Joe smoothed his hand up and down her back. "It's me, then?" he asked in a low voice. "I've done something to put you off? Besides harbor dangerous plants?"

She shook her head. "I don't know what to do," she whispered.

"I'm not the brightest bulb in the garden, but why don't you let me help you try to figure something out," he offered, glad to see a ghost of a smile at his phrasing.

"I don't know where to start," she said with a sniff. Unconsciously, she leaned back into his hand as it continued to rub her back with gentle pressure.

"Start with what's got you so upset," he suggested. He placed his other hand on top of hers as it lay on the table.

"I'm married…I was married," she began, not looking at him. When he made no comment, she stole a tentative look at him and nearly smiled at his utterly gobsmacked expression.

"I should say, I was married until just before I did your tattoo," she went on.

"You just got a divorce?" he asked slowly, trying desperately to follow.

"I just signed the papers," she replied. "My legal name is Phyllis Coyle, or it was until I signed the papers."

There was an extended silence as Joe took this in. His gut began to feel like it was infested with aphids. Needing to see her face, he gently swept her hair back and felt her press her cheek against his palm for a second.

"He was the one who hurt you," he stated, not needing to ask. She nodded. "Where…?"

"Prison," she answered before he could finish his question. "Peter is eight years into a fifteen year sentence for attempted murder and grievous bodily harm."

His mouth dropped open in shock. "And you've just now divorced him?" he stammered, wishing he could take it back immediately.

Phyllis closed her eyes feeling something inside her twist and snap in humiliation at the thought of trying to explain that relationship to Joe. He ran his hand over the back of her head and leaned closer to her.

"I'm sorry, Phyllis. That was…I don't know why I asked that…"

"I do," she muttered. "Makes no sense, does it? Why would a woman not divorce the man who hurt her for years, who's in prison for trying to kill her?" She opened her eyes to look into his. "Don't you think I've asked that question too?"

"Phyllis…you don't need—"

"You don't know what I need, Joe. You won't listen when I say I have to leave, when I say we can't work." He opened his mouth to object, but she talked over him.

"I always just hoped if I didn't draw his attention to me, I'd fall off his radar and he wouldn't want to fuck around trying to find me or keep me. So I used my maiden name, my Gran's surname actually. But I was never going to be free of him…"

Her voice was rising in agitation and Joe wanted to say something, anything, that would comfort her. But he couldn't find the words.

"He'd owned me, Joe," she continued in a hollow voice after a deep breath. "I could do nothing without his permission. He kept me pulled into his crimes and took whatever I made. And even after he was safely locked away and I was out of hospital, he still owned me. I didn't dare divorce him."

"But you did," he said in little more than a whisper.

"I did. I did it because I finally felt strong enough too." She turned to look at him. "You were going through so much, trying to figure out who you really were while your dad was so sick, and I watched you do something you never thought you could do when you figured it out. Something meaningful and permanent. Something as strong as you are. Your strength made me strong. So I signed the papers I wouldn't sign before - the ones that required my home address."

"Surely they wouldn't have given him _that_!"

"Why should they fucking care, Joe? They never cared before when he was beating on me. He knows where I'm at now - I'm sure of it. And if he reached out to his old friends, and… and…"

Joe awkwardly gathered her in his arms as her breath began to hitch and her hands clenched into fists.

"The Sharmas…and the shop…and you… everything is in danger now. The Sharma's could have lost everything, Joe…and it would be my fault for putting…for putting them in his sights…"

"It's not your fault," he muttered into her hair. "It couldn't be your fault. It's a coincidence, Phyllis."

"They'll never catch any racist shitbags for this, Joe. It was him…"

Joe rocked her in his arms, trying to calm her. She leaned into him gratefully and felt her heart constrict in her chest. After a few moments, Joe pulled back and took her face in his hands, looking at her exhausted, haunted eyes.

"Alright," he said firmly. Standing up, he reached out and pulled her up off the chair. "You need to rest."

As he began leading her out of the kitchen, she stopped and tried to pull back.

"Joe…I don't…"

"You need to sleep," he insisted. "Things will look different in the morning."

He walked with her to her bedroom door and she balked.

"I couldn't go back to sleep…not now. Not after all this."

"Would it help if you weren't alone?" he asked. She shrugged, not looking at him. "Why don't you come rest in my bed, then? Just to sleep, Phyllis…that's all," he added as she looked conflicted.

She nodded and allowed him to lead her to his bedroom, barely taking in the clothes strewn everywhere. He quickly kicked a pair of boxers under the bed and straightened out the bed clothes.

"They're clean," he assured her with a little smile.

They slipped under the covers with Joe making sure she had plenty of space and didn't need to touch him. He lay, staring at the ceiling in the dark, almost vibrating with the tension of needing to hold her and comfort her after her revelations.

"Joe?"

"Hmmm?

"Would you…would you hold me a little? Would that be alright?"

He silently held out his arms and she slowly settled herself next to him, her head on his chest. His arm curled around her back and gently pressed her to him.

She fell asleep almost immediately, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart.


	9. The Row

The Row

Jimmy watched his employer warily from as far away as he could legitimately stand in the front of the shop. He strongly suspected that Mr. Molesley had gone completely round the twist. Never before had his boss ignored the fact that his employee was an hour late, had torn open a 50 lb. bag of potting soil trying to shift it, creating an avalanche of sorts in the front of the shop, and had subsequently knocked a pot of Oxalis off a shelf while pretending to play quidditch on the broom.

Mr. Molesley had been personally fond of that Oxalis. And yet, his response was a resigned grunt as he continued to stir his coffee and stare intently at a Hibiscus with a contented smile. Something was most definitely amiss, and it was throwing Jimmy off his game. As he tipped the last pan of potting soil into the bin, he stole another cautious look at Mr. Molesley, who was leaning on the counter, looking as if he and the Hibiscus shared a naughty secret.

"Jimmy, why don't you do the church displays today," he suddenly said. Jimmy jumped at his voice and spun to look at him in amazement.

"Really? Really, Mr. Molesley? Even…even Mrs. Glastonby's?"

"Especially Mrs. Glastonby's," he muttered. Then he sighed and looked at Jimmy's astonished face. "Haven't you been watching me do them for years? Go on then. I'll check them before you go."

Jimmy wandered towards the back, his mind racing. He took one last look back, only to see Mr. Molesley grinning at the Hibiscus.

Joe had watched Jimmy skitter around the shop like a gerbil with the trots for the last hour, and simply couldn't bring himself to be arsed at the series of small tragedies that followed in his wake. He wasn't best pleased about the Oxalis, but the pot had been too full anyway, and the bulbs had needed repotting. No real harm done. Nothing really distracted him from the memory of waking up with Phyllis in his bed and no laundry to do.

_He hadn't slept that deeply in months, and when the alarm went off, he only vaguely registered that there was a weight on his chest, holding his left arm down on the bed. As he flailed blindly for the clock, he tried to focus his brain on what his bleary eyes were telling him - Phyllis Baxter was lying next to him, curled up against his chest with one bare knee draped over his thigh and her arm across his belly. He winced as the alarm droned on and she stirred. When he finally made contact with the clock, it was sent spinning from the bedside table to crash on the floor._

_ "__That wasn't necessary," Phyllis murmured into his ribcage. "I was pretty much awake when you started twitching like a goosed matron."_

_ Joe snorted with suppressed laughter and tightened his arm around her, gently stroking his hand up and down her spine, enjoying the proximity while at the same time wondering what it might feel like to do the same without the barrier of his pajama top on her back._

_ "__No need for you to get up this early. I've got to go in and make sure the Sunday orders are ready. But you can have a lie in, if you want." _

_ Phyllis arched against him unconsciously as she relaxed into his caresses. Reluctantly pulling herself up on her elbow, she raised her head up enough to take a good look at him in the morning light. Her lips twitched as she took in his thin, flyaway hair sticking up all over and the stubble on his cheeks. Without thinking, she lifted her hand off his chest and lightly stroked the back of it along the side of his face._

_ "__I've never seen you this rugged before," she said with a smile as he shivered under her touch and closed his eyes for a moment._

_ "__I always wake up looking like I've been on a three day bender," he replied apologetically. _

_ Phyllis made a scoffing noise. __"You just look like you had a late night, is all. And maybe got lucky…" She could feel his grin under her fingertips._

_ "__You could say that. How's your hip? Any better?"_

_ "__Much," she replied, "and thank you for that." _

_ Impulsively, she punctuated her thanks by leaning over to kiss him lightly on the lips. Joe tensed in surprise, then brought his arms up to lightly grasp around her back. She moved her lips over his softly before pulling back and looking into his surprised, but delighted eyes._

_ "__You're welcome," he replied breathlessly. _

_ Feeling that the moment was about to turn awkward, Phyllis sat up and scooted to the edge of the bed, unintentionally providing Joe with a lovely view of her back and knicker clad bum as the pajama top rucked up. Joe stifled a groan and was grateful the covers were still bunched around his waist._

_ "__I'll just go and start getting ready," she told him over her shoulder as she headed for the door. "But I may take a few moments to beat that cactus to death."_

_ "__By all means," Joe said after her. "Use my cricket bat; it's in the hall closet."_

_ Phyllis turned back with a grin. __"And do you think your mum would approve?"_

_ "__Mum would be so thrilled that I've got a woman staying with me that she'd build an altar and set the bloody cactus on fire as a burnt thanks offering," he replied dryly. _

_ Phyllis laughed all the way down the hall._

Joe's smile at the Hibiscus widened as he replayed that laughter on an endless loop in his head and was pleased that he had brought her some happiness after a hellish night of fear and panic.

"She might not have meant anything by that kiss this morning," he informed the Hibiscus. The Hibiscus blazed skeptically pink. "I dunno…do you think she did?"

* * *

"You look like hell this morning," Thomas called out cheerfully. "What, does Molesley snore or something?"

"Not so I've noticed," Phyllis snapped, trying to pull her hair back in a knot at her neck while glaring at Thomas through the mirror in her office.

"He needs to leave you alone long enough for you to get some sleep then. Let him repot his own begonias, if you know what I mean."

"You don't even know what you mean," she replied dismissively. "Repot his begonias…"

"Any idea when you'll get a new flat?"

"No," she said, averting her eyes from his in the mirror. "Joe's happy for me to stay there for now."

"I'll bet he bloody is. But it's not doing you any favors…"

"Put a sock in it, Thomas, and mind your own bloody business," she said through clenched teeth. "You have no idea how good he's been to me."

"Ooooh? Do tell," he replied with a waggle of his eyebrows. "Go on," he said at her disgusted glare. "I tell you everything."

"I don't _want_ to bloody know everything!"

"Maybe…but I tell you anyway. You can return the favor at least…"

"Bloody hell," she groaned, closing her eyes in frustration and to block out Thomas' shit eating smirk. "Look…he's been a good friend and you need to lay off of him."

"So you can lay on him?"

"Piss off already," she ordered. "God, you must be desperate if you want a vicarious sex life through me."

"Stop talking about sex in the context of you and me," he ordered. "It makes my knackers shrivel."

Phyllis burst into laughter and gave Thomas a friendly shove out of her way.

"What sort of redeeming qualities does that wank-biscuit have, anyway?" he continued as he followed her to the front of the shop and watched her check over her station.

"For one thing, he listens. Something you know fuck all about…"

"I'm deeply wounded."

"I feel safe with him, Thomas," she said. "He cares about me in a different way than you do. And he puts my well-being over his own convenience."

"Was that a shot at me?" he replied in a wounded tone.

Phyllis just looked at him until he rolled his eyes and shrugged.

"Well…Mega Action Floral Man might be what you need right now - though God knows why - but don't forget who's been with you for years."

"I couldn't forget that, Thomas. Not ever," she replied, laying her hand on his arm. He covered her hand with his for a moment.

"I'd lay a quid on the self righteous bastard running a mile if you tell him everything you've been through, Phyllis," he said, his gentle tone contrasting to the harshness of his words.

"I've told him already, and he's not even broken into a fast walk," she shot back.

"You're joking me. You told him about Coyle and all?"

"I had to Thomas. This whole situation might be because I divorced the bastard and he's getting back. I might be the reason the Sharma's shop almost burned down…"

"Phyl, no! That's not even…"

"I had something of a panic attack last night when I was attacked by that bloody, vicious cactus," she went on, ignoring the attempted interruption and his subsequent confused look. "And everything just came out…." Phyllis trailed off, remembering Joe's care and affection. "He was exactly what I needed."

"I'm not even going to ask about the cactus - too kinky even for me. But Phyllis, none of this can be down to Coyle. It's got to be local fuckwit racists."

"Local fuckwit racists just happened to wait until I'm the tenant before burning down the back stairs? In Thirsk?"

"Don't forget, I was beat within an inch of me life by a pack of bloody homophobic knob-shiners at a fair in bloody Thirsk. They've got ignorant arseholes and to spare."

"I'd forgotten about that," she murmured.

"Why do you think I hate setting foot in that shithole? It's local talent, is all. Not Coyle."

"That's what Joe said," she commented, "He said it had to be a coincidence."

"As much as it pains me to agree with Molesley," he said with a grimace, "he's probably right."

"What if he's not?" she asked quietly.

"He's right and I'm even more right," Thomas said firmly.

The doubtful look on her face didn't go away, and Thomas watched with concern as she went back to setting up her station.

* * *

Joe looked back out of the doors of the church at his van, idling in the car park, while waiting for one of the altar guild ladies to come relieve him of his floral delivery. The sight of the side of Phyllis' head, her hair down like it had been that morning, framing her cheeks, calmed him enough to not just chuck the order onto the altar. It was already gone two in the afternoon, and he was anxious to get Phyllis over to her flat before the mechanical step was taken away.

"Ah…I'll just take those, Mr. Molesley!"

He turned to smile at the bustling, tiny woman who gently took the display and craned her neck around him to look at his van.

"You'll want to be on your way, I'd imagine," she added with a cheeky wink.

Joe felt heat creeping up the back of his neck and didn't meet her eyes. He winced when she giggled like a school girl and rushed away with his delivery. Mrs. Glastonby, thankfully, was no where to be seen.

The Vicar, however, appeared at the door to his office and his eyes zeroed in on Joe. Joe tried to pretend he hadn't seen him gesture to come over and began to head out the doors at a good clip.

"Mr. Molesley!" The Vicar's smooth, rich voice echoed across the sanctuary and drew the attention of everyone in it. Joe stopped at the doorway with a pained grimace, followed by an apologetic look at Phyllis, before turning around to reluctantly greet the Vicar.

"Don't you get a day off, Rev. Travis?" Joe asked bluntly, taking in the Vicar's lack of a cassock and the red track suit he was wearing.

"I could ask the same of you, Joe," Rev. Travis replied. "But I am, technically, off today. I just needed to see to a few things, so I dropped in before heading off to coach a little youth footie. Do you play?"

Joe twitched impatiently and couldn't keep his eyes from straying off to the side towards his van. Phyllis watched with amusement through the passenger window.

"I prefer the cricket," he replied. "And I really must be…"

"Yes…yes…I'm sure you're in a hurry. Busy day for you. But I was hoping to have a chance to chat - catch up with you and your father. You see…"

"I really do have to go," Joe interrupted with a hint of desperation in his voice. The Vicar was notorious for taking his pastoral duties so seriously that he'd spend an hour hashing out the minutia of your spiritual life.

"It'll just take a moment," he soothed. "I went to visit your father a few days ago, and he mentioned that you had been…well…seeing someone. But he didn't know who exactly…"

"What? Dad's been listening to gossip about me? That's not like him…"

"At any rate," the Vicar went on as if Joe hadn't spoke, "I wasn't able to put his mind at ease about anything, Joe, because it's been so long since I've passed a word with you…"

Seeing Joe's agitation and frequent glances towards his van, the Vicar glanced over himself, his eyebrows rising at the sight of Phyllis in the passenger seat. He looked at Joe with a twinkle in his eye.

"Perhaps you might like to tell me about her?"

"No, not really," Joe replied, just short of rude. "And I've got to be going…helping my neighbor with an important errand."

"Ah…very well then," the Vicar began. But Joe didn't wait to hear anymore. "I hope to see you at services soon, Joe!" he called to his retreating back.

"Like bloody hell you will… nosy git," he muttered darkly as he climbed back into the van.

Phyllis laughed. "Was he winding you up?"

"Someone's been gossiping about me and you to Dad. Or maybe the Vicar was gossiping about it, I'm not sure. Nobody notices me my whole bloody life, but when I start having a life…"

"Are you having a life, Joe?"

"I am since I met you," he replied, starting the van.

"That bloke is still watching from the top of the stairs," she mused, flushing from his last comment. Joe shot a glare at the curious churchman.

"What they don't know, they make up," Joe said, reaching for the gear shift. "He's probably coming up with all sorts of things right now."

Phyllis reached out and grasped his hand before he could engage the gears. "Then give him something real to talk about."

"What do you…"

"Try not to look shocked; it'll spoil the effect," she ordered as she unclipped her seatbelt and leaned across the gap between the seats to grab his face and kiss him fiercely.

Joe tried his best not to look shocked, but couldn't prevent his eyes widening in surprise. When Phyllis parted her lips and swept her tongue over his lower lip, he closed his eyes and gripped her tightly, kissing her back with equal fervor.

What had started as a way to flip off the nosy Vicar rapidly became passion for it's own sake. Phyllis moaned into Joe's mouth as he deepened the kiss, brushing his tongue against hers. When she found herself wanting to shift to his lap, she pulled away, trying to regain some control.

But Joe followed her, and he kissed her again. His hand slipped up to cup the back of her head, burrowing into her hair. Any thought she might have had about pushing him away vanished as he gently explored her mouth. When he pulled away for a breath and started to say something, she pulled his face back to hers and kissed him again.

By now, the Vicar had shaken his head and gone back inside, pulling the doors shut firmly behind him as if endeavoring to preserve the innocence of the Altar Guild, all of whom had been married for longer than he'd been alive. Neither Joe nor Phyllis cared that the person they were putting on a show for had disappeared.

"We'd better get going," Phyllis whispered against his lips the next time they broke apart for air.

"I already am," Joe muttered, dropping kisses up her jaw.

"No, I mean, we'd better get going to my flat," she said, tipping her head as he found a sensitive spot behind her ear.

Joe took a deep breath and sat back into his seat. "Right…right…"

He engaged the gear and looked over at Phyllis before releasing the brake. She met his eyes as she strapped her seatbelt on, and then looked away with a little smile.

"I, um, don't suppose we can talk about…about that?" he asked.

"What's to talk about?" she asked, surprised.

"How long before we can do that again? How often can we do that? Do we have to be sat in the church carpark with the Vicar watching to do that…?"

"Just drive, Joe," she answered with a laugh. "We'll talk later."

"Later. Right!… Just talk?"

"Drive. If we miss the stair I'm having you scale the bloody wall."

* * *

Joe cautiously maneuvered the van through the alley in back of Mr. Sharma's shop and gingerly backed it in. An irritated, flustered Mr. Sharma stuck his head out of the back door to yell about deliveries only, but brightened when he saw Phyllis getting out of the passenger side. Not sparing Joe a look, he bustled out of the door and took Phyllis' hands in his, asking her how she was.

"I'm well, Mr. Sharma," she replied, squeezing his hands and smiling. "And your family? the girls? your mother?"

Mr. Sharma snorted and waved his hand. "My mother intends on taking to the streets with a large broom handle if the police don't make some progress soon."

"Nothing then?" Phyllis asked uneasily.

He gave Joe, who was standing awkwardly next to the driver's door, a side-eye glance.

"You can speak in front of Joe," she assured him. "He's here to help me gather what I can."

"Well, I do not know what is taking the police so long, but they have a suspect in mind."

"That's wonderful!" Joe said happily.

Mr. Sharma shrugged and rolled his eyes. "It will be wonderful when they arrest someone, if only to keep my mother from roaming the streets to mete out justice."

Joe snickered, making both Phyllis and Mr. Sharma glare at him. He trailed behind them, carrying a roll of rubbish sacks, as Mr. Sharma led Phyllis to the foot of the mechanical stairs. She stood at the bottom, staring up at the yellow tape that festooned her doorway and the burned, damaged door hanging crookedly ajar.

"I can go up with you, if you like," Mr. Sharma offered in a rumbling, gentle voice.

Phyllis shook her head and mustered up a smile for him. "I'm sure you have a lot to take care of, Mr. Sharma. Joe and I can handle it."

Mr. Sharma looked at Joe as if doubtful he could handle anything. Joe stared back, trying and failing to keep his irritation off of his face. Phyllis rolled her eyes and grabbed Joe's hand.

"We shouldn't be long," she assured Mr. Sharma as she began to mount the stairs, dragging Joe behind her. The stairs shook beneath them, making Joe stop abruptly and stare at them in alarm. At Phyllis' impatient hand gesture, he followed her up more slowly until he joined her at the top.

Phyllis stood, staring into the darkness of her flat, nose wrinkling from the musty, acidic smells. Joe took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

"I don't see how anything can be salvaged," she whispered.

"Let's not give up before we look," he suggested.

She nodded and took a deep breath before stepping over the threshold. The walls of the living area were blacked and soot stained with long drip marks from the fire retardant. She looked around slowly, taking in the damaged area rug, scorched bookshelves, and the sad heap of her old easel. The damage was worse here, as the paints had acted as an accelerant. All of her art on the walls was damaged beyond repair.

She could feel Joe move up beside her as she stood in the middle of the flat and stared at the damage. He lightly touched her shoulder and looked at her anxiously. With a gentle finger, he swiped her cheek, wiping away the tear that she didn't even realize was falling.

"I'm alright," she said with a slight gasp. "I'll be alright."

"Of course you will," he affirmed. With a serious look, he unfurled a rubbish sack and began looking around.

"There's nothing we can salvage from in here, Joe," she said, shaking her head. "Almost all the furniture was already here when I rented it. And the rug and the shelves are too badly damaged." She spared her books a glance and turned away from the waterlogged covers and swollen pages.

"The bedroom door was shut, though," she added, "so maybe I'll find something left in there. Clothes and personal things, anyway."

Joe nodded and followed her into the bedroom after a sad glance at the living area.

Phyllis stared at all the outfits laid across her bed, still left from when she was getting ready for her date with Joe. Shoes were still scattered across the floor from the closet to the bed. Everything smelled of smoke and retardant, but there didn't appear to be any damage.

"Where should I start?" Joe asked, looking around curiously.

"How about you go empty the bureau. Everything is going to need a good wash, but should be worth taking." She suddenly grinned mischievously at him. "Besides, it'll give you the opportunity to rummage through my knickers."

Joe stared at her for a second, then grinned in delight. "I've dreamt of rummaging through your knickers."

"Have you now?"

Joe chuckled and began sifting through the contents of the top drawer, stopping on occasion to admire certain items. Phyllis turned from stripping the bed to see him holding up a knicker and bustier set with his head titled to one side as if he was measuring it on her. At her glance, he dropped them like they were on fire into the open rubbish bag and cleared his throat. She rolled her eyes at him, then turned back to the bed to hide her grin.

She was stripping items off the hangers in the closet when she heard him whistle. Sighing, she turned around to see what was amusing him this time.

Joe swung the broken handcuff around one finger as he looked at her expectantly. Phyllis had forgotten it was in her bureau.

"That's Thomas'," she said quickly. When the only change to his expectant expression was his smile growing wider, she shook her head and continued. "One night, before I moved here, he showed up on the doorstep of my flat in York, attached to the bloke he'd just broken up with, naked as the day they were born and drunk off their arses. Apparently, the break-up sex didn't go well, and neither of them were sober enough to find the key and get the cuffs open. So I broke it, tossed it into my drawer, and let them sleep it off on my sofa." She had to smile as he tried to look skeptical but couldn't hide his amusement. "True story, Joe. Ask Thomas about it sometime."

"I cannot conceive of any possible way for this to come up in the conversations I have with Thomas," he replied, before tossing the cuffs into the bag.

"No need to keep them," she said. "Bin the bloody things."

"I can probably fix them," Joe replied. "I'm pretty good with my hands."

"Prove it."

"I mean I'm good at fixing small, fiddly things," he said, beginning to color up.

"I'm sure you are," she replied. "But why would you _want_ to fix them?"

Joe muttered something unintelligible and busied himself with the next drawer. Phyllis left the closet and wandered over to Joe.

"I didn't catch that, Joe? Something about wanting them so you can prove to me how good you are with your hands?"

"I didn't say…" he sputtered indignantly until he caught the sly smile on her face. "Well…I wouldn't _need_ them to show you how good I am with my hands, assuming you'd be interested in finding out."

"I might be," she mused, reaching out to run her hand down his arm and play with his fingers.

"Really?"

Phyllis leaned forward, smiling as he began to breathe harder. "There's nothing sexier than watching a man change a watch battery," she whispered in his ear.

Joe burst into laughter and gripped her hand in his, tugging her closer. Phyllis had wrapped her arms around his neck when they heard the rumble of Mr. Sharma's voice from the stair.

"Miss Baxter? Are you still up here?"

Phyllis stepped away from Joe and cleared her throat before replying. "Yeah. We're here."

"The insurance adjuster is here and would like a word with you, if that would be possible," he called, taking care not to step into the flat.

Phyllis heaved a sigh and looked at Joe, who was less than thrilled with the interruption.

"I've never liked insurance adjusters," he said in a loud whisper.

At that moment, even as she gave Joe a scolding look, Phyllis didn't like insurance adjusters either. She reluctantly went through the living area and met Mr. Sharma and a buttoned down agitated factotum who introduced himself without releasing his death grip on the stair railing, and whose name she promptly forgot.

"Ah…Miss Brasser—"

"_Baxter_," Mr. Sharma corrected gruffly before she could reply.

"Oh…sorry. Yes, Miss Baxter. Will you be removing all of your items from the flat at this time?"

"Yes," she answered warily.

"And is there a record of the items that were part of the flat rental and are therefore included on the property policy?" he asked Mr. Sharma. Mr. Sharma sighed mightily and nodded, shifting from foot to foot and making the agent whiten and grip the railing even tighter.

"I'm not taking anything that isn't mine," she snapped at the hapless agent. She could feel Joe at her back and wished she could lean into him.

"Of course not…of course not…" the agent replied soothingly, although as he ran his eyes over her visible tats, his expression was skeptical. "But there should be some sort of checklist in order to…prevent mistakes. For everyone's protection, of course. I may have some forms in my briefcase…"

Phyllis' gut burned with rising anger, but before she could say anything, Mr. Sharma strongly suggested that the agent begin his inspection in the stockroom. Swallowing heavily, the agent made his cautious way down without a second glance at Phyllis, muttering about fetching the forms while he was at it.

"My apologies," Mr. Sharma told her, inclining his head.

"No worries, Mr. Sharma," she replied, biting her lip. As Mr. Sharma turned to go, she made a sudden decision.

"Wait, Mr. Sharma! I need…I need to tell you something."

"Phyllis, you don't…" Joe began in a low voice as Mr. Sharma stopped and gave them his attention.

Phyllis shushed Joe with a glare and took a deep breath, hoping her voice wouldn't shake. Mr. Sharma waited patiently.

"When you agreed to rent to me, I…I wasn't completely upfront about everything," she said, not meeting Mr. Sharma's eyes.

"Oh?"

"No…I, well…I didn't tell you that I had a criminal record, that I'd spent time in jail." She stole a look at Mr. Sharma to see him looking politely at her, waiting for her to continue. "And I never mentioned that my husband - EX husband - is in jail for a violent felony."

Mr. Sharma sighed. "Why does everyone assume I do not know how to use a computer and conduct a simple background check?" he asked rhetorically.

She heard Joe snicker behind her and was torn between staring at Mr. Sharma in amazement and spinning around to punch Joe on the arm. She settled for stepping hard on his foot, listening with satisfaction to his pained grunt.

"But if you knew…?"

"Why did I rent to you? Why shouldn't I? You weren't jailed for defrauding your landlord. Your history is nothing but history, Miss Baxter. It does not determine if you will be a good tenant now. All I ask is that a tenant does not throw loud destructive parties and pays rent on time." He looked at her with a gentle expression. "You needed a place to live and I needed a tenant. Sometimes these things just work out."

"But I should have told you about my husb— my EX husband. This firebombing could all be down to him." She dropped her eyes and looked at the top of the stair. "I could be the reason your shop and your family was in danger, Mr. Sharma. And you should probably let the police know—"

"I am quite confident that this has nothing to do with you, Miss Baxter. I have received anonymous, threatening racist letters for the past six months. Several local shop owners have." At her amazed look, he looked a bit embarrassed. "I would have told you about them, if I had ever thought you would be in danger, Miss Baxter. I _should_ have told you about them, and I am sorry."

"Well that's a relief, isn't it Phyllis?" Joe asked cheerfully. Both of them turned to stare at him. "I mean…it's a relief it was local racists…I mean, it's not a relief that you were firebombed by local racists, but…" He trailed off as he noticed that Phyllis and Mr. Sharma wore nearly identical expressions of incredulous irritation.

"I'll, uh…just go finish packing, shall I?" he muttered, backing away from the front door. As he slunk back into the bedroom, he could hear Phyllis arguing with Mr. Sharma that he shouldn't discount what her ex-husband was capable of. He felt a surge of anger and dealt the side of the bureau a stout kick.

* * *

Phyllis watched the houses and fields in silence as they drove back to Downton. The plan was to drop off her things and run her back to the tattoo shop. She and Joe had made quick work, packing everything in her bedroom, except for the mattress and box springs. Joe made no effort to encourage her to keep them, and she assumed that he was intending for her to stay at his cottage indefinitely. The idea of living with Joe, of sharing his home, and likely his bed, appealed to her so much it was frightening.

Joe kept glancing at her as they drove, catching glimpses of her face in the reflection of the passenger window. He watched the road pensively, wondering how badly he had fucked things up this time.

"You're very quiet," he finally said. She glanced at him and gave him a weak smile that was more of a grimace. "Have I…have I done something to upset you?"

"I just finished touring my firebombed flat and collecting the scraps of my life that were left, Joe. Everything upsets me."

"I'm sorry. That was a stupid question."

"I didn't expect it to be so hard," she said quietly. "I didn't have much, and they were just things…replaceable things…"

"Except your art."

"I can always do art, Joe," she replied, making a dismissive motion with her hand. "It was more about how I thought I was safe, and now I realize how much I'm not."

"Phyllis," he began as they turned into the drive to the cottage, "I heard you arguing with Mr. Sharma. I thought you'd be relieved to find out it didn't have anything to do with your…that Coyle bloke."

"Maybe not, this time," she replied, staring through the windshield, "but that doesn't mean he won't…he won't try to get to me. When I signed those bloody, fucking papers, I as good as put a target on myself." She turned to look into his eyes. "And a target on anyone around me."

"He's locked away, Phyllis. And he's got years yet to get over the divorce before he'll breathe free air again."

"You're just like Mr. Sharma, just like Thomas. You can't know what he's capable of."

"I know he tried to bloody kill you," Joe said with rising voice as he pulled to a stop next to the front door and turned off the van. "And I know he won't get another shot at it, Phyllis. He won't."

"You just don't understand!" she responded. "He doesn't have to lay another finger on me to kill me. I've got the shop now. I've got a life out from under him. I've got a partnership with Thomas - Peter always _hated_ Thomas. I've got y—" She broke off, biting her lip and breathing loudly through her nose. "I've got so much more to lose than my life, and I've presented him with a target-rich environment."

"That's right! You have a future you've made yourself and friends who will stand with you if anyone tries to threaten it. And you _do_ have me, Phyllis, whether you want to say that or not."

"I don't want to have you, Joe," she said coldly.

Turning swiftly from his hurt, shocked face, she exited the van and slammed the door hard enough to make the windows rattle. Joe watched, stunned, while she opened the cargo doors and began throwing the rubbish bags onto the ground next to the old garage that he never used. Suddenly, his face twisted in anger and he slammed his own door shut and stalked around to the back of the van.

"You're a piss poor liar, Phyllis! You're lying to me; maybe you're lying to yourself."

Phyllis ignored him and continued dragging the bags out of the back. If she looked at him, she knew she would start crying like she would never stop. As the last of the bags dropped by the garage, she took a deep breath and turned her head toward him without meeting his eyes.

"I won't leave them here longer than it takes to find a new place. Will you open the garage door and help me with the bureau and the bed frame?"

"No. No I won't. You don't need to store your bloody things in the garage. I'll take them into the house."

"And make your whole house smell like a bonfire? The plants won't like that, Joe."

"Bugger the plants!"

"That's your area of expertise, not mine," she sneered.

"Phyllis, why are you doing this?" he asked desperately.

"I'll take my scooter to the shop. And don't worry about me coming back. I'll sleep there until I find a flat."

Joe stood in the driveway, his face an open wound as she grabbed her scooter from the side of the cottage where she parked it, yanking it viciously off the kickstand and pounding on the ignition. As soon as her helmet covered covered her face, she allowed it to crumple.

"It's for your own bloody good, Joe. You'll see," she muttered to herself as she rode off. But she had to acknowledge that Joe was right.

She _was_ a piss poor liar.

* * *

"What the _fuck_, Phyllis!?"

"What I said," she replied, swallowing against the lump in her throat and hating the way her voice shook. "I'm moving out of Joe's cottage. I'm staying here until I can find a flat. I don't want to have anything to do with Joseph bloody Molesley."

Thomas recoiled from the anguish in her eyes and lifted his hands in a bewildered gesture. "What the fuck did he do?!"

"I thought you'd be prancing around for joy over it," she said, turning her back to him. "I don't want to talk about it, Thomas. Just…just leave it. Just fucking leave it."

"Just leave it? The hell, Phyllis?"

"Reschedule anything I have for the next two hours, Thomas," she ordered as she headed towards her office.

"Did he hurt you, Phyllis? Cause I _swear_, I'll fucking kick him to death if—"

She spun around at her door, revealing the tears rolling down her cheeks. "God, Thomas. Joe would never hurt me. I'm the one who hurt him."

"Well then, he probably deserved it—"

"Shut up! Just shut up!"

"Tell me what happened, Phyllis. Please."

"I'm not going to risk him, Thomas. I'm not going to risk you or the shop either…I just haven't figured out what to do about that yet…"

"Risk? What risk? What the… this isn't about Peter Coyle again?"

"I'm done talking about it right now, Thomas. Done!"

Phyllis slammed the door behind her. Thomas could hear her muffled sobs.

"Oh, I'm not done talking about this," he muttered grimly. A client walked in as he stabbed a contact on his cell phone, and he nodded to the waiting area.

"It'll just be a tick, mate… Oh hey, love. You have Molesley's cell number don't you?… Well, this _is_ an emergency… C'mon, Jimmy, I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. Believe me, Molesley will _want_ to hear from me…"


	10. The Future

**A/N-**** I'd say that this chapter kinda pushes the "T" rating just a skoosh. It may even knock it completely over and take its lunch money...**

The Future

Joe watched blankly as his hands fiddled with the dial on his washer. The reek of smoke filled his back porch as he tipped up the detergent bottle and dumped in an unmeasured amount. Wrinkling his nose, he fished in the closest rubbish bag and began shoveling Phyllis' clothes in by armloads. Slamming the lid down, he punched the start button and wandered into his sitting room to stare out the front window, past the Rubber Tree, out to his van.

"Why am I doing this?" he asked the Rubber Tree in dismay. "Why is _she_ doing this?" The Rubber Tree had no relationship advice to give.

He thought vaguely about eating some supper, but felt like he would likely chuck up anything he managed to choke down. What he wanted to do was head to the pub and not come out until he was thrown bodily from the premises. Gathering his keys, he headed purposefully for the door, only to stop on the steps when his eye fell on the space where his house key had been.

"How am I going to get _that_ back?" he mused, absently turning around and waking back into the cottage. The arhythmic thumping of a horribly overloaded and unbalanced washing machine met his ears. Cursing, he dragged himself back into the back porch and with hollow eyes watched the washer pitch and shimmy.

"Fuck!" he bellowed suddenly, kicking the side of the washer repeatedly. "Fuck fuck fuck!"

If his phone hadn't been shoved into his front pocket and set to vibrate as well as ring, he'd have never noticed the call. Fetching the washer one last kick, he dug the phone out and squinted at the mysterious number on the screen.

"What?" he snapped

"Nice," Thomas' voice rang through. "Did your Mum teach you to answer the phone that way?"

"Thomas?"

"No, it's your Great Auntie Josephine," Thomas replied, unable to resist poking Joe with a stick. "What the hell is that noise? Sounds like orcs at the gates."

"What do you _want_?" Joe demanded, wandering away from the incredible din of the washer, completely baffled as to why Thomas would be calling him.

"I want Phyllis to be happy," Thomas promptly replied, "What do _you_ want?"

"What? What are you… She threw me over, Thomas. Rather decisively. Don't you have anything better to do than call me and… hang on…how the hell did you get this number?"

"How do you think?" Thomas replied. Joe could see his eye roll through the phone. "But don't chew his ass out. I assured him it was an emergency, and it is."

"What's the emergency?" Joe asked quickly. "Did something happen to Phyllis?"

"_You_ happened to Phyllis, and it's fucked things up ever since. But it also made her mostly happy, until now."

"Thomas, if you don't start making some sense immediately, I'm hanging up and blocking this damn number."

"You want sense? Here's some sense…Phyllis threw you over because she obviously loves you enough to want to protect you. I can't imagine why, but that's neither here nor there as you're not my type."

"I'm still waiting for you to make sense."

"She's miserable. She's spent the day in her office crying. She hates herself for what she said to you, which she wouldn't repeat to me, so it must have been impressive…"

"Why are you telling me this?" Joe asked in befuddlement. "What can I do about it if she won't see me or talk to me?"

"Talk to her anyway."

"She said she didn't want me, Thomas. Why would she listen to me?" His voice cracked miserably, making Thomas grimace and hold the phone away from his ear.

"I thought you cared about her," Thomas replied. "But I guess she's not that important to you after all."

"Of course I care about her! And fuck you!"

"Then you need to tell her that."

"How many times do I need to say this? She doesn't want to see me or have anything to do with me."

"Yes she does. Now quit wanking about and get over here."

Joe took a deep breath and noticed his fingers were wrapped so tightly around his phone that he was leaving dents in the protective case.

"Thomas, I think in your own terribly fucked up way, you're trying to help. But you don't—"

"Oh fuck this," Thomas interrupted. "Do you love her?"

"Yes," Joe answered without hesitating.

"Then don't give up. Come over here and talk to her. I'll reschedule all her appointments or take them myself."

"She might hate you for doing this."

"I'll take the risk," Thomas replied impatiently. "Now get your arse in gear and get over here."

With that, he hung up. Joe stared at the phone in his shaking hand, then looked over at the Rubber Tree.

"I've never done anything like this before in my life. What do I say?"

Not only did the Rubber Tree offer no wisdom, it also did not appear impressed with his chances.

* * *

Phyllis raised her head from her hands when she heard the door open quietly, then shut. "Fuck _off,_ Thomas. Do me the courtesy of just giving me some space, mate. _Please_."

When there was no response, she growled and jerked around to face the door. Her eyes locked with Joe's as he watched her with a wary, yet determined expression. She gaped at him incredulously.

"How the _fuck_ did you get past Thomas? What the hell do I have to do to put you off!?"

"Oh, you've vastly underestimated how bloody pathetic I can be," he replied seriously.

The bark of laughter that escaped her was a shock, and she clapped her hand over her mouth. Joe's expression didn't change.

"I've come to apologize for not listening to you, for not understanding," he continued.

"Fine," she snapped. "You've apologized. Now fuck off."

"Actually, I was hoping you might listen to _me_ for a minute," he responded.

Phyllis dropped her head to her hands with a groan. "Just go away, Joe."

"I will," he promised, "if you want me to. But I'd like to know something first."

Phyllis muttered something about calling the police and Joe shrugged.

"If you like. I guess that would be pretty bloody ironic, in a way. But my question is simple—"

"For fuck's sake…"

"Are you telling me to fuck off because you don't care for me? Don't fancy me in any way? Maybe because I'm too type A, or too obsessed with botany and I bore you off your tits? Or maybe I'm a lousy kisser? Or maybe you just found me amusing at first but realize what a blithering wanker I really am and have decided to cut your losses?"

Phyllis stared at him for a moment, then turned away and swallowed hard.

"If that's the case, then I'll creep away, sadder but wiser, and try to limit our interactions to nodding when I pass you on the street. And I'll be stupid and go to the pub to get so pissed and tear the place up so much that I get banned again - for life this time, so you don't have to worry about ever running into me there."

Joe watched her carefully, but she didn't meet his eyes. After a few moments, he continued.

"Now, if you're telling me to fuck off because you _do_ care for me… if this whole, horrible, wretched fucking thing that's happening right now is because you care for me enough to give up any chance of us being _happy_ together so I can be safe…well, there's nothing that's going to put me off. You might make me keep away, but it won't put me off. Any chance of that was squashed when I woke up on your sofa here, hungover as shit after being a complete and utter drunken douchebag to you, and you offered me coffee and didn't laugh much when your spider tattoo startled me. That's when I think I started to fall in love with you."

Phyllis drew in a loud breath and bit her lip to stop its quivering. "Stop," she pleaded in a whisper.

"So I guess what I'm wondering," he continued conversationally, "is if I go from here to just live a life? Or if I go from here with a life worth living - a life with you in it."

"You can't know—" she began, shutting her eyes tightly against the rush of hot tears that threatened to pour down her cheeks.

"You're right," he interrupted. "I can't know what will happen if you stay in my life. Maybe in seven years, we'll have to deal with your ex. Maybe we'll find that we can't make it work. Maybe I'll be crushed under a front end loader while trying to remove a privet hedge. Or maybe I'll finally snap and either strangle Jimmy or make him a partner…"

Giving up stemming the tears, Phyllis opened her eyes and peered blearily at him as he went through his list, ticking them off on his fingers with a look of concentration, as if he was afraid he'd miss something. She drew in a hitching breath and fought the urge to grasp his hands in hers, as if that would make him stop.

"Thing is," he continued, his voice rising with emotion, "I've never taken a chance that mattered before I met you. I want to find out what happens with you, no matter what it is. I don't want a life without you, no matter how safe it might be. I want…"

Phyllis looked up from his hands as his voice trailed off and saw him screw up his face to keep from crying. She watched as he took a few deep breaths and scrubbed at his cheeks with the back of his hand. For a long moment, neither said anything.

"I want you to be happy - I want to _make_ you happy. I want that more than anything. So, what do I do, Phyllis?" he asked in a choked voice. "Do I just…fuck off?"

She tried.

She tried to find her anger in him barging into her office, not taking a hint, making this so bloody _hard_. She tried to convince herself that her mind was made up, that it was _still_ for his own good.

She tried to tell him to fuck off.

But she remembered his strength during his dad's illness, his excitement at the way his life began to change, and his gratitude for the role she played in it all. She felt the ghosting of his fingertips on her scars, on her hip. There had been safety in his concern and in the gentleness of his arms around her. And the taste of his lips on hers had made her never want to stop kissing him.

She set all that aside and prepared to tell him to fuck off. But all that came out was ugly sobbing. He took a step towards her and raised a trembling hand, but didn't quite dare to touch her as she faced away from him, her shoulders heaving.

"If my goal is to make you happy, I seemed to have fucked that up spectacularly," he said quietly.

Phyllis began to sputter with laughter through her tears and struggled to breathe. He gently tapped her between the shoulder blades like she was choking, then rubbed his palm soothingly across her upper back.

"You're not a lousy kisser." she gasped. "You don't bore me and you're only a blithering wanker some of the time…"

As she babbled, Joe's heart jumped so abruptly it was nearly painful. He waited for her to continue, but she stopped talking to try to get her sobs to quiet. He left his hand resting lightly on her back, but wanted nothing more than to turn her so that he could see her face.

"Some of the time? Well…that's progress," he murmured.

"God, Joe…I can't…" she said in a shuddering breath, suddenly aware of the feel of his hand. She could feel him shaking with emotion. "I can't tell you to fuck off. I don't even want to tell you to take your hand off my back…"

Joe put both hands on her shoulders and gently turned her to face him. She closed her eyes as he cradled her head in his hands and wiped her tears with his thumbs.

"So…I'm _not_ a lousy kisser?" he asked as he caressed the sides of her face.

A tiny smile crept across her face and she opened her eyes to stare into his. He leaned forward and kissed her gently on the forehead. She breathed deeply and one part of her mind wondered why he smelled so strongly of detergent. Then she was pulling him to her, clutching the back of his shirt as she buried her face in his neck. They stood, holding each other tightly, not even acknowledging the rapid knock on the office door.

"Oi…sorry to interrupt," Thomas said with a truly annoying grin as he stuck his head in the door. "But I've got one of your clients getting all _shirty_ about rescheduling his appointment tonight, Boss. In fact, he's sitting in the waiting area glaring like he's about to chew the sofa leather."

"Tell him I'll be out in a tick," she replied, her answer muffled into Joe's collarbone. Once the door closed, she reluctantly let go of his shirt and leaned back in his arms to look at him.

"I don't guess I'll be fucking off," he said with a little grin.

She smoothed her hands over his chest. "I wouldn't blame you if you decided to…after all this shit—"

Joe lowered his mouth to hers before she could finish. Her lips parted under his and she pressed closer to him, forgetting about her client waiting in the sitting area, pouring an apology and everything she couldn't yet say into returning the kiss. He broke the kiss much too soon, in her opinion, letting go of her entirely and stepping back.

"I never want to stop when I'm kissing you," he said in a raspy voice.

"I don't think I want you to stop," she replied.

He immediately reached out for her, just as there was a brisk rapping on the door.

"Alright! Alright! I'll be out in a bloody minute!" she yelled. Huffing in frustration, she rested her forehead against Joe's for just a second before sighing and stepping away to head for the door.

Joe reached out and grasped her hand. "Will you come back to the cottage, Phyllis? Please?"

She nodded slowly, then bit her lip. "We need to talk, though."

"Yeah. We do. But I'd rather talk there…"

They both turned towards the door when they heard raised voices in the front of the shop, one of which was Thomas'.

"I'll come back, then. After work. And if you're asleep, we'll talk tomorrow," she assured him.

He smiled and lifted her hand to brush his lips across her knuckles. "I don't think I'll sleep unless you're there…"

"Phyllis!" Thomas yelled from the front. "This cranky bastard is about to tear my shit up!"

Phyllis hurried out the door to the front of the shop, followed closely by Joe. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the huge man standing on the sofa, bellowing at Thomas. Everyone in the shop was enjoying the show immensely.

"Claude, you gaping arsehole!" she yelled happily. "I didn't know you were back in England!"

"Phyllis, me darlin! I didn't know you were still hooked up with this smarmy bum bandit!" he yelled back, shoving Thomas so hard he stumbled back.

Joe gaped in confusion, having no idea if the giant man was a threat. But when he saw Thomas grinning and Phyllis being enveloped in a bear hug, he stopped assuming the worst. Still, he wasn't best pleased with it.

"Are you here for something new, or do you need me to repair someone else's fuck-up?" Phyllis asked when Claude lowered her to the floor.

"Work yer magic on me body, love!" he yelled. "Now that yer all done shagging that poor git in yer office."

Phyllis laughed, then noticed Joe staring suspiciously at the big man. She gestured for him to come over.

"Claude, this is Joe," she said, smiling at Joe's startled, wary expression.

"Lucky sod," Claude said as his huge paw engulfed Joe's hand. "Don't worry - I won't keep her long."

Joe mustered up a little grin, which broadened when Phyllis winked at him. "Good to meet you."

"Alright, Claude…for you, I'll cancel all my other appointments," she said, slapping him on the back.

"I'll see you later, then," Joe said, unable to stop grinning. Thomas gave him a very self satisfied look.

"You…owe…me," he said to Joe, emphasizing each word with a poke in Joe's chest.

Joe suddenly grabbed Thomas, spun him around, and bussed him loudly on the cheek.

"Fuck me!" Thomas yelled, jerking away from Joe and glaring at him.

"I don't think I owe you that much," Joe replied, as the shop rang with howls of laughter.

"I'll definitely want to hear all about this, Thomas," Phyllis said. Thomas glared at her and muttered something about regretting everything nice he'd ever done for her.

Joe paused at the door to look back at Phyllis getting her large friend settled. She was listening to him start off on a loud and obscene anecdote from his travels, but let her eyes settle on Joe at the door.

He took her smile with him and replayed all the promise in it as he repaired his washing machine and soldiered his way through Phyllis' laundry.

* * *

She hesitated on the steps of the cottage, not as late as she usually was; Thomas had insisted that she leave early and let him take care of the drunks and insomniacs that would pour in after midnight, demanding a tattoo. But it was late enough. And she was tired and wrung out from working on the incessantly jabbering Claude on top of all the emotional upheaval.

She didn't really want to talk. What she wanted was to curl up next to Joe like she had the night before and sleep in his arms. Perhaps, without the shirts this time…

While she was pondering with a little smile on her face, the door opened. Joe stood in the entryway, droopy-eyed and balancing a laundry basket on his hip.

"Thought I heard the scooter," he said, stepping back so she could come in. "I wasn't expecting you home this early." He glanced apologetically at the basket. "I was hoping to get it all done before you got here."

"Thomas kicked me out of my own shop," she replied. Taking a second look at the basket as she passed, she noticed all the clothes were hers and looked at him questioningly. "What's all this?"

"Well, I couldn't leave everything sitting in bags out by the garage…" he said sheepishly.

"And what would you have done if I had stuck to my guns and told you to fuck off?" she asked with a grin.

Joe shrugged. "Probably cleaned everything and dropped it off sometime when you weren't around. That way, you'd have at least one decent memory of spending time with me."

He blinked nervously at her unreadable expression as she stared at him.

"Put it down," she ordered, gesturing at the basket.

He had barely set the basket carefully on the floor when he found his arms full of her. Her momentum pushed him against the wall of the corridor as she kissed him and he wrapped his arms around her enthusiastically. He moaned into her mouth as she pressed closer to him and wrapped one leg around his and slid his hands down her back to cup her bum and hold her to him. As they jockeyed for position against the wall, Joe's foot caught the basket and tipped it, scattering the clothes everywhere.

"Not that I'm complaining," he gasped as she began kissing his jaw and working her hands up under his t-shirt, "but didn't you want to talk?"

"No…yes…but not tonight…not now…" she whispered between kisses. She shifted her body against his, wringing a groan out of him. "And you don't want to talk either, by the feel of things," she finished, making her way back to his mouth and capturing his lips again.

Talking was definitely not at the top of his priority list at that moment. Breathing was even taking a backseat compared to what her tongue was doing in his mouth while her hands wandered his bare back under his shirt. When she caught the edge of it and began to pull it over his shoulders, they broke apart long enough for her to tug it completely off and for him to notice the clothes scattered across the floor.

"What?" she asked. He was distracted by the bra that was caught on the heel of his shoe.

"I just washed these bloody things and…" he bent down to try to disentangle his foot, "…if I tried to carry you off to my bedroom like I want, I'd trip and possibly kill us both."

Phyllis laughed at his frustrated grumbling and knelt down to help him. They gathered the clothes, watching each other out of the corners of their eyes as they did. As Phyllis stretched away from him to chase down a pair of leggings, he found her backside to be so engrossing that he sat down in the middle of the corridor with a sock in his hand and simply watched. When she turned to see him staring at her with a dazed expression, she chucked the leggings at him with a grin.

"Get busy, you. I'm not going to pick all this up on my own so you can sit there and ogle my arse. The sooner we get this cleared, the sooner we can move out of the entry way to someplace nicer."

Joe ducked and flushed with embarrassment. "Are you saying my entry way isn't nice?"

"It's nice enough as entry ways go, Joe," she replied with a roll of her eyes, "but it's not exactly where I was hoping to shag you tonight."

Joe dropped the sock into the basket and began scooping up armfuls of clothes. Phyllis took advantage of his frantic activity to observe him, running her eyes from his tousled hair down to his bare chest. His clothes tended to hide that he was rather fit. He paused with a handful of knickers to return her stare.

"Now who's ogling?" he teased as he tossed the last of the clothes into the basket.

"I am," she admitted, moving closer and running her fingers lightly over his tattoo.

"It's nice work, isn't it," he commented lightly, "in spite of the quality of the canvass."

Phyllis could feel his chest moving rapidly under her fingertips. "Let's go somewhere so I can look at it a little more closely," she suggested.

"So long as I can do the same with yours," he replied, bending over and reaching for the basket. She stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Leave the bloody laundry," she said firmly. "It'll keep."

She took his hand and tugged lightly. He followed her down the corridor until she paused in the doorway to her room. Her bed was covered in stacks of neatly folded clothes and there was a dusty ring around the bare spot on the table that had previously held an obscenely healthy Christmas Cactus.

Joe moved up and wrapped his arms around her. She leaned back into him, content to be held against his bare chest for a moment.

"How did you…?" She gestured at the empty table.

His arms tightened around her as he sighed. "I opened the window, took off the screen, hooked it with a garden rake and dropped it to the ground."

"You didn't!" she said, turning in his arms to smile at him.

"Yeah," he replied. "I did. Then I drove over it with the ATV."

"Really?" she asked, delighted.

"Several times," he confirmed, his eyes sparkling. "I quite enjoyed it."

"I'm going to quite enjoy thanking you for that."

* * *

He knew he was babbling as her lips traced the tattoo on his chest, but he couldn't seem to stop.

"I wanted you to do this after the tattoo," he murmured, running his fingers through her hair spread across his chest. "I wanted you to touch me without those gloves…" He could feel her smile against his skin.

Phyllis shifted her body to lay directly on top of him and nipped kisses down his torso towards where she had already undone his trousers. Joe reached down her back and grasped the hem of her shirt, bunching it in his fists as he pulled it slowly up. She raised up enough to allow him to slip it off over her head, then sat up, straddling him in order to release her bra clasp.

"Don't…please," he said, sitting up and running his hands down her back. "Can I do it?"

"Did you want do that when I gave you the tattoo…when I showed you my dragon?" she asked him.

Joe had taken the opportunity afforded by proximity to begin kissing down the swell of her breast, running his tongue lightly over the hummingbird staring at him with a beady, challenging eye. His reply was muffled.

"God, yes… I wanted to see and touch every inch of you… to see how each of your tattoos tasted—"

Phyllis interrupted his monologue by tilting his head up and kissing him hard. She grasped his hands as they wandered up and down her sides and pulled them towards her back. His fingers fumbled with the bra clasp as he returned her kiss.

"I thought you were good with your hands," she teased when he let out a frustrated grunt and pulled his lips away from hers to try and peer over her shoulder.

"I am when I'm not distracted," he protested.

"Shall I turn the light on and draw you a diagram?"

He flopped back onto his bed and gave her a pathetic look. She rolled her eyes at him, unsuccessfully fighting back a grin, and reached over to the bedside lamp to flick it on. He squinted in the glare and frowned as she clambered off of him to sit on the edge of the bed with her back to him.

"Well? Go on then," she ordered, looking over her shoulder at him. He knitted his brow in confusion for a moment before the light dawned in his eyes. The bed dipped as he sat up and scooted closer to her, his fingers working nimbly at the clasp while he dropped kisses over her shoulders. She arched back against him and couldn't prevent a yawn.

"Am I boring you?" he mumbled into her neck as the clasp came loose.

"Not at all," she replied, bringing her hand up to the side of his face. "The day's just catching up with me a bit."

"Do you want to just go to sleep?" he asked, wrapping his arms around her and resting them on her belly, just below her breasts.

She took his hands in hers and slid them up until they cupped her breasts. "Do you?"

Joe responded with an inarticulate groan and pawed at the straps of her bra until it fell off. Phyllis' laugh cut off with a squeal when he pulled her down next to him on the bed and kissed her as he rubbed his palms slowly across her nipples.

"I don't _want_ to just go to sleep," he mumbled. "But if you're tired…"

Phyllis arched against his hands and ran hers under the waist of his trousers to squeeze his bum before pulling his body tighter against hers.

"Stop talking so much, Joe," she ordered as she slid her leg over his and pulled him to hover over her.

Joe stopped talking. In any case, he was more interested in the noises Phyllis was making as he lowered his mouth to her breast than in conversation. And he wasn't capable of saying anything coherent at all once she began pushing his trousers and shorts down over his hips.

"Take them off, Joe," she said, pushing him to one side and sitting up to help him. He kicked them off vigorously, drawing in a deep, stuttering breath when she ran her fingers up and down his thighs before wrapping her hand lightly around his erection.

"Oh God, Phyllis!"

She smiled at the desperate longing in his voice. But as she began to move her hand in firm strokes, he grasped her wrist, shaking his head.

"I can't…" he gasped. "I can't hold out much longer."

For a moment, Phyllis was tempted to ignore his plea and bring him off. He felt good in her hand and his frantic breathing and wide eyes made her feel powerful and very much in control. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been the one to control the pace and outcome of sex.

He shivered in arousal as her eyes held his, and she saw the vulnerability in them. With one last squeeze, she released him. His sigh of relief was lost in her mouth as she kissed him slowly.

"Can I…?" he began, tugging gently at the waistband of her leggings.

She lifted her hips and grinned at his expression when he discovered she wasn't wearing knickers under them. He was distracted by the tattoos on her thighs before he had gotten them down past her knees.

"You're so incredibly beautiful," he muttered as he stroked the intricate garter tattooed on her right thigh. "I don't think I've ever seen anything as sexy as this."

"Not what you were expecting?" she asked with a gasp as he lowered his head and began nibbling down the ribbon towards her knee.

"I just want to slide my fingers underneath it," he said. "Or feel it pressed into my ear."

"Fuck, Joe…take them the rest of the way off," she moaned.

He obliged without taking his eyes off of her. She tried to reach him to bring him back up the bed, but he lifted her foot up to get a better look at the tsunami that ran from her ankle up her calf.

"Joe…"

"I dreamt of touching every single one of your tattoos," he said distractedly, kissing the inside of her knee.

"That'll take all bloody night," she replied impatiently, "and I want you now." She gripped his shoulders and urged him to make his way back up her body.

"Can I just have a moment?" he pleaded, dragging his fingers along her inner thigh, delighting in the way her back arched and her breath hissed between her teeth when he reached his goal and began to stroke her between her legs.

"Oh God…take your time," she panted, pulling him down to kiss him.

He did take his time, wanting to be inside of her desperately, twitching and gasping when she cried out and her hips bucked and brushed against his erection.

"You _are_ good with your hands," she mumbled, shutting her eyes when he hit a particularly sensitive spot.

"I don't want to disappoint you," he whispered.

She grabbed his face with both hands and looked into his eyes. "The only way I'm going to be disappointed is if I have to go all the way back to my bag for the box of condoms Thomas chucked in there before I left."

Joe stretched across her and scrabbled for the drawer on his side table. She squirmed underneath him, reaching down to stroke him again, making him close his eyes and grope blindly for the condoms he'd bought the night of their date in a fit of optimism. He managed to snag a row of them and fumbled them with shaking hands to try to separate one and open the package.

"For God's sake, Joe," she said with a laugh, "let me help."

He gladly gave up the task to her and watched as she adroitly opened a package and rolled it onto him. Not wasting any time, she pulled him back over her and wrapped her legs around his. He braced himself on his arms and stared down at her as he rolled his hips gently and slid into her. When she arched her back and thrust her hips up, pulling him deeper into her, he gave a choked gasp and lowered his head to kiss her throat.

"I love you…God, I love you," he moaned next to her ear.

Phyllis clutched his back and decided she wanted this man inside her forever. He moved faster in response to her breathy moans and whispered encouragement, knowing he wasn't going to able to hold back his climax much longer but unable to even consider trying to slow down.

Phyllis could feel him tensing and held him tighter. When he cried out and shuddered, his thrusts slowing as he panted and tried to keep from collapsing on her, she pulled him down to her, not wanting to let go of him yet.

"Don't go," she told him as he kissed her neck and jaw. His mouth covered hers and his hands cradled her head as he kissed her gratefully.

"I'm not going anywhere," he murmured between kisses. "I'm really not. I couldn't move right now if my life depended on it." He could feel her body shake with laughter and lifted his head up enough to smile at her. "Besides, I haven't seen all your tattoos yet."

They lay together, sated, until the sweat of their bodies cooled and forced them under the blankets. Joe rolled over on a condom package, which stuck to his still moist skin, making him swear under his breath and bat at it. Phyllis grabbed his hand and plucked it off herself.

"We might need this later," she scolded.

Joe laughed wearily as a wave of exhaustion rolled over him. "You give me too much credit," he mumbled as his eyes closed.

"We'll see about that," she replied, cuddling into his side under the arm he wrapped around her as he drifted off.

Phyllis proved to be somewhat prophetic. By the time the alarm went off, they'd used two more.

* * *

Phyllis maneuvered her scooter carefully through the damp, misty morning air. Sunday might be a day of rest for Joe, but she had a shop to run. He'd thrown together a decent fry-up after their early morning lovemaking and offered to drive her to work, but she'd declined.

_"I may need my scooter during the day, and this way you won't have to come out to fetch me late tonight. You're not at my beck and call."_

_ "__I could be, if you wanted me," he'd responded with a grin. _

_ "__Just be ready when I get back tonight. If you're asleep, I intend on waking you up!"_

She parked the scooter and walked in through the back door without even noticing that it was unlocked. Thomas sat on one of the sofas and watched her with an amused smile as she went to the coffeemaker to start it up and looked at it in confusion when she realized there was a fresh pot already made. It was then that Claude, who was asleep on the other sofa let out a huge snore, making her spin around to see Thomas leaning up on one elbow, watching her with a smirk from the other sofa.

"Had a good night last night?" he asked in a loud whisper.

"I did, " she replied, warning him with her glare not to ask anymore questions. "What the hell is _he_ doing passed out in my shop?"

"Long story," Thomas replied with a grimace. At her suspicious look, he rolled his eyes. "Seriously, you do _not_ want the details."

Phyllis just shook her head and started back to her office.

"You must have had a bloody phenomenal night if you can't be arsed to get to the bottom of this," he called quietly after her.

"If he pukes every where when he wakes up, he's your responsibility," she replied as she left. When she got to her door, she turned back with a raised eyebrow. "And I did have a bloody phenomenal night."

"Bloody Molesley," he said with a wide grin as she shut the door quietly. "Who'd have guessed?"

* * *

Joe Molesley wouldn't have guessed. It never occurred to him that Phyllis was as distracted as he was that morning. He replayed her threat to wake him up in his mind over and over again as he cleaned up the breakfast dishes, finished the laundry and watered the plants.

"Bloody hell, that was incredible," he confided to the Rubber Tree as he showered it with water from the can with a dazed air. "Shit…oh damn it. Sorry, mate," he sputtered when the water overflowed the pot and began dripping on his shoes.

The Rubber Tree drooped in a martyred fashion.

Joe cleaned up the water and returned to his bedroom, where he found himself staring at the three, empty condom wrappers. A long shower might be in order before he went to visit Dad. As he scooped up the wrappers and used condoms to throw them in the bin, he revised his shower plans to mostly cold. Leaving the bed turned down to air, he wandered into the bathroom.

* * *

Mr. Molesley the Elder watched his son tap his fingers anxiously on the table and twitch in his chair while making small talk. When Joe knocked his tea over and began to frantically try to mop it up with the sofa pillow he snatched up , Bill Molesley had had enough.

"For love of God, Lad," he wheezed. "What's got you so keyed up? You're scattered worse than pigweed."

"Sorry, Dad…sorry," Joe stammered, still trying to clean up the spill.

"Leave off with t' bloody pillow, Lad, and tell me what you're about!"

"Did you want to go to church today?" he asked reluctantly.

His dad snorted and shook his head. "I might, if t' good Vicar wasn't hanging about the facility all t' bloody time. I've seen quite enough of him lately." He shot Joe a hard stare from under his eyebrows and his neatly trimmed mustache twitched.

Joe would have laughed, but Dad's discerning look made him squirm. "He's a piece of work, yeah." he said, clearing his throat. "Bit of a gossip, too."

"Got the wrong end of t' stick, does he? 'Bout you and some woman?"

"Ah…well… I _am_ seeing someone…"

Joe flushed as visions of just what he'd seen came to mind. His dad's eyebrows shot up and he hid a smile as he watched his son stammer and blush.

"Serious, is it?"

"Yeah. It is." Joe took a deep breath. "I'm in love with her, Dad."

"That woman wi' t' shop next door? T' one you called a… a… what was it? A 'nightmare of a walking canvas'?"

Joe bristled. "Well, I didn't know her very well then, did I?" he snapped. "She's a lovely person…just beautiful. And talented! And she's strong, Dad. Strongest, most caring person I've ever met. I don't know what she's doing with me…"

Bill Molesley listened to his son's vehement defense of his girl and smiled.

"So… when do I get to meet her, then?"

"Um… I don't know," Joe replied, taken aback.

"If she's as wonderful as all that, you'll be wanting to marry her, won't you?"

"What?! We haven't… That's not something we've discussed, Dad." Joe missed the twinkle in his Dad's eye as he teased his son. "I mean, I would…probably. But I don't think she'd want to. Um…marriage hasn't worked very well for her before. And she probably wouldn't…"

"You're not so far along as that, but you've moved her into the cottage - lock, stock and barrel," his dad said with a shake of his head. "You young 'uns."

"She didn't have any place to stay, Dad. Her flat was firebombed while we were out on our first date…" Joe stopped protesting when he finally realized his dad was having him on. He glared at him.

"I raised a bloody Good Samaritan alright," Mr. Molesley said, breaking into a wheezing laugh.

Joe watched in alarm as his dad's face turned purple from struggling to breathe, and he scrambled for the oxygen cannula. Bill waved him away and took a deep drink of his tea.

"Stop it, Dad," Joe ordered. "If you keel over, you won't ever get a chance to meet Phyllis."

"Can't be having that," he sputtered as he coughed and grinned. "Your Mum would never give me a moment's peace if I passed on afore meeting the woman that's got our lad in such a twitter."

Joe rolled his eyes and felt about fourteen years old. Dad suddenly reached across the table and smacked him on the shoulder.

"Pub's open. Let's go have a pint, Lad."

* * *

Phyllis put the delicate finishing touches on her client's owl's feathers. The ornithologist has come all the way from Leeds because word of mouth had gotten around that she was accurate with birds. Phyllis listened with half an ear as the bloke rattled off another list of distinguishing features of the Long Eared Owl before complaining darkly that amateurs preferred to call it the "Hornie Hoolet." She smiled as he shoved pound notes at her, unable to take his eyes off of the finished piece.

"I've got a new nickname for you, Thomas!" she called across the shop.

"Sod off," he snapped, etching a tentacle down a young man's arm. "You're insufferable when you've gotten laid."

"You're insufferable when you've not," she replied with a grin, "and that's most of the bloody time lately."

"Need a night out with the lads?" Thomas' client asked with a grin.

"So to speak," Thomas mumbled.

"One lad, anyway," Phyllis put in.

Joe walked in the shop door to see Thomas glaring and shooting a rude gesture at Phyllis, who was leaning against the counter, laughing and looking happy. She smiled when she saw him and his heart flipped over.

"What would like to know about the Hornie Hoolet?" she asked him.

"Not a bloody thing," he replied, bewildered. "Your past is the past, Phyllis."

Phyllis and Thomas exploded in laughter. She was still giggling when she took Joe's hand and led him back towards her office.

"No shagging on the clock!" Thomas yelled after them.

"Like we would fit on the clock," she yelled back. "We're not gymnasts!"

As soon as the door was shut, Phyllis pulled him to her and kissed the confused look off of him. He was smiling again when she leaned back to look at him.

"Is the Hornie Hoolet a bloke or a sexual position?" he asked.

She buried her face into his chest until she stopped laughing. "It's a fucking _owl,_" she gasped. "I did up an arm tat for a crushingly boring ornithologist from Leeds today."

"Sounds delightful," he said unconvincingly. "I visited Dad for a bit, then we went for a drink at the pub and I had to put him down for a nap after. He can't sup them like he used to."

"He's better, then?"

"Getting there." Joe looked at her with apprehension. "He wants to meet you someday."

Phyllis didn't look enthusiastic at the prospect. "I suppose he would—"

"I couldn't stop talking about how incredible you are," he interrupted nervously, pushing her hair back from her cheek and smiling when she rolled her eyes at him.

"And he didn't have a problem with me moving in?"

"No," Joe replied, a touch of surprise in his voice. "Set me back on my heels a bit to have him sitting with me in the pub and giving me advice about wooing a woman while he's getting tiddly on one pint."

"Wish I'd have been a fly on the wall. What kind of advice did he give?"

"I don't remember it all. He did say something about making sure the prophylactics were lubricated, and I told him I had that covered."

"He never did!" she replied, snorting with laughter and slapping his chest.

"I'd have expired on the spot if he had." Joe watched her laugh and loved her so much he felt dizzy. "He went on a bit about making sure you knew how I felt. _Don't keep her guessing, Lad, _and the like."

"I know how you feel, Joe," she said, resting her hand on his chest over his tattoo and kissing him again. As she deepened the kiss, he responded enthusiastically and began to walk her backwards towards her desk. When she wrapped her arms around his neck, he boosted her onto it.

"I hope you do," he mumbled, running his tongue around her ear and making her shiver. "I want this to work so much, Phyllis."

She pulled his head back to look him in the eye, dismissing visions of making him take her over the desk. "I do too, Joe. I really do."

"Client is here, Phyllis!" Thomas' voice right next to the door made them jump.

"Be right out," she called back, kissing Joe again then hopping off the desk.

"I've loved you since you plunged a thousand needles into my chest," he blurted as she straightened her shirt.

Phyllis smiled. "There's a coincidence. I've loved _you_ since I plunged a thousand needles into your chest."

Joe grasped her hands and brought them to his lips. "I'll see you back home, then?"

"You will. Back home."

She held onto his hand as she opened the door and walked back out to the front. Her eyes followed him as he stopped at the door and waved before he left. Before she went over to her client, she stopped at Thomas' station and hugged him fiercely.

Thomas sighed tragically. "So I guess this means that wanker is going to be around for the foreseeable future…?"

"Yes, he is," she replied with a smile. "He most certainly is."

**A/N the second- All done! And thanks so much for reading a reviewing. Special shout out to my marvelous beta, Gelana, who deserves ALL the cookies and more for her outstanding editing. If it read well to you, it's down to her.**


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